Smile Pretty for the Camera

It is hot, swelteringly hot. I have only about twenty minutes. I am on a mission.

We are out of food and I am hungary. Four tired cranky boys are waiting at home to be fed and my cupboards are totally bare. We have used up even the basic food items. The kids had to fight the cat for the last bowl of stale cereal sans milk some hours earlier. They will jump me as soon as I enter the house carrying the brown paper grocery bags.

I know I should not shop on an empty stomach and return with eight times the amount of junk food than a human should consume in a lifetime, but I am left without choice. I know my large warehouse type grocery store like the back of my now malnourished hand. I should as it is my most frequented hang out. I know the lay out of my stomping grounds so well I have been known to rearrange misplaced food items back to their proper shelves on my own.

On this day I am in my power shop mode. Up and down every single isle I fly, throwing necessities into my cart faster than a speeding bullet. When the rows are open, I shove my cart ahead of me to roll on it's own so I can grab products with both hands and toss items basketball style into it without stopping. My store plays alternative music so I sing along with the Talking Heads as I near strip the shelves of their contents.

In the candy/bread lane a box of Dots accidents falls off the shelf, ripping it's self on my teeth, so I am forced to eat as I continue to shop. Of course the box nestles itself in the handy cup holder within easy reach. I grin my rainbow grin at the other customers and head my mountainous cart to the checkout.

I am bagging and arranging all my goodies after emptying my checking account to pay for this bounty when a tie wearing manager type man approaches me. "Excuse me, Ma'am, can I have a moment?" "Yeah", I answer with a vague look on my face as I suck fruit goo out of my back molar. "In my office please?" Oh rats! Office man thinks I was stealing candy! Without putting down the box of Dove ice cream bars I am packing, I grab my receipt and walk with him past all the large dog food bags and up the stairs into his office.

In his office there is another man sitting desk mulitscreen TV's positioned infront of him. He continues to stare at them as I sit down at the managers desk with a shaky feeling of being caught for my illicit actions. "I paid for my candy!", I blurt, suppressing a cry and shoving my receipt at him. "I eat only things I pay for!" "It's ok ma'am- that is not what we are concerned about." Then what...?" "Look", the man in front of the screens finally speaks. "Watch." He is rewinding the pictures on the screens. Black and white images jerk discombobulated backwards. He hits play and I see myself, moments earlier. What does this prove I wonder, if I am not in trouble for my eating? I can feel the ice cream now softening in my hot trembling hands.

There I am in produce, squeezing the Brauborns and grabbing the biggest bunch of bannanas I can find. "Yeah?", I question, wondering if I bruised to many apples in my haste. "Just watch", he answers as the manager continues to stand and look out his window down from were I had just came from. What was he looking for? Cops? Back up?

I am in the deli section on the screen now- pointing to the case for pastromi the girl had wrapped for me. Oh I get it now- this is a hidden camera show- will I see a sign on my back or toilet paper hanging off me? I open the ice cream bars slowly as I continue to watch myself and feeling flushed with embarrassment.

"Keep watching now, see that guy there?" "Yeah," I answer offering him a bar- feebly hoping to bribe the man to destroy this film and not send it in for money. The guy on the screen he is pointing to is non-descriptive. I do not even remember noticing him in the store. "He concerned us, his behavior suspious, that is why you are here." "Why am I sitting here, if HE concerned you?", I pull the ice cream out of my mouth and ask. "Look closer, we noticed him following you through the entire store."

I watch in dumbfounded amazement at the freeze frame images of myself in my shopping zone. Bending over in my short shorts to pick up a case of water, dancing while picking out toothpaste, jumping up to get the unbroken chips on the top shelf, all with this same man always within close proximity of me, watching, his cart near empty. He was evaluating me as I was oblivious. I even grinned at him in the carb isle.

It was a eerie violated feeling I had when that ice cream headache hit. "Damn" I said slumping in my chair with one hand on my forehead, bare stick in my mouth. "Stalker in isle seven". I am thinking. He could have worn a "I'm a pervert", shirt and I would not have noticed. "You don't happen to know this man do you?" the nice manager men ask me. "No- can't say as I have ever seen him before." "Well he has left the parking lot. (out side camera). Would you like us have someone help you load your grocer's into your car, or follow you home?" "Wow- thank you, but no, I'll be fine", I answer with a totally creeped out feeling as I left the store unharmed.

I'm trying to think of the appropriate thank you for these alert and observant gentleman. Home made cookies or flowers would just be redundant. Perhaps a nice Thank You spelled out across my butt cheek's as I bend over that water in isle seven next time...

This Weeks Run

The list of people I want to take a run at this week:


The young man with piercing who told me the walleye dinner I had just made looked so good if he wasn't seeing someone......he'd be interested ...(in it?).

The slightly feminine curly haired cub scout leader with the cute little grunion.

Tool guy.

My favorite renaissance IM man. You know who you are.

My boss. (ok I work for a couple- now you have to guess which one.)

Handsome dark haired guy who works for Hubby.

Worship leader with the soulful voice. (sorry God sorry)

Counter boy from the deli. (pretty sure he is legal)



*disclaimer- list open to change without notice and for a limited time. name appearing on list does not guarantee an actual physical run will occur. offer pending my finding the portal into the guilt, moral, and consequence free dimension. please wait responsibly. brace yourself.

Heat Element

You knocked on my door after all those years.
I hugged you hello as if we had never been apart,
and I thought "When did you grow such broad shoulders?"

You sat on my couch and tried to explain to me the advanced heating systems you designed. I watched your mouth as you spoke and wondered , "What does his breath tasted like?"

You help me build a garden and we got caught in the rain, I called you "Dirt Boy" and you threw mud at me. You believed my tears were real and came to wipe them away. "There-there Flower Girl ." I tripped you and you were coated. You pulled me down in the slime with you as I laughed. "Dirty pig", I thought. You said" You are beautiful."

I made you dinner to make up. You said, "Good Bye" with a hug. Your arms wrapped around me for a moment too long. I looked up into your eyes and thought. "What is a thermocouple?"

Years Beyond Her Wisdom

Today when I woke up there was a nine year old girl in my bed. Her eyes snapped open like a nodder doll and with a single volatile kick, threw back her covers and began jumping with glee on the warm soft spot she had spent her restless night. Then she bounded to the window, where she parted the curtains with one hand and pressed the other that was balled into a fist to her mouth as she squealed with excitement. It stood right were she had left it ever so carefully the evening before. In the softly filtered morning light, The Blur stood shining proudly, awaiting the little girl and the day's adventures that lay ahead.

She had been relentless to the mother the day before. "I want a bike." "No, we have better uses for our money than a new bike." "But I'll use it every day?" "No, there are too many bills that need to be paid first." "But can I at least go and look at all the different bikes they carry at the bicycle store?" "Ok, but to only look at the bikes, on the way to buy groceries" "I will just look at the bikes then." "Yes, just look."

She had acted like a spoilt little brat in the bicycle shop, embarrassing that poor mom. "How much is that one?" she would demand, having the clerk pull the model she was obstinately pointing at, making the harassed young man working there take it down. "No-wait, that one!", changing her mind again as soon as she spotted a prettier one. She went so far as to test ride them in the over crowded shop between the rows of parked two wheeled apparatuses until she was stopped. When she was given permission to try it out the blue one in the parking lot, she refused to get off. "Weee" she yelled as she maneuvered between the cars of the pothole infested space. When the lyrics to Blurs Song Number Two would not leave her head, (weee-whoo!! yeah, yeah...), she knew this bike had it's name and was meant to be hers. The nice salesman talked her out of ridding it home and helped the mom load The Blur into the SUV.

The little boys of the neighborhood all gathered around and sighed in admiration as it was unloaded onto the driveway. Many ridding lessons and pointers were offered to the little girl before she hopped on The Blur and took off down the dive and out into the street. The pack of surprised boys shouting in hot pursuit as she lead the way, ringing her bell and laughing at their frustration of not being able to catch up to her. Who knew they could be beat by such a girl?

Today though was the big day. They (her and the bike) were going on their first trip. She danced and hummed as her brushed her teeth. She giggled and picked out an outfit to compliment The Blur. Then she found an even better one to compliment her butt while ridding The Blur. Then she packed her saddlebags. Lunch, water, tissues, camera, cell phone, mad money, hair brush, granola bars, would accompanied them on the journey. She would of packed a map, but knew were they were going. On an adventure.

For the first mile she peddled as fast as her little legs would let her, her eyes glued to speedometer until she veered off the blacktop doing thirteen miles an hour and into the ditch. While sitting there amongst the wild flowers and butterfly's she decided to concentrate on more of the beauty of the surrounding scenery and less of the technical wonderments of her new prize so back on The Blur she swung once again and on to seize the day.

Miles two and three zoomed by with her operating the multi shifting leavers hoping to try out all forty of the mostly unused gears. It was that killer hill on mile four when she got the gear shifter stuck and pulled into the ditch filled with sweet grass and crickets to fix it she really began to feel the burn inside her legs. With a determined snort she pushed off with the inclines summit insight ahead of her.

The yellow dividing lines rushed past her as she sped down that challenging hill for mile five. Mile six, when she realized she would have to work her aching legs again, hurt more than the dull ache in her backside from the skinny torture bar of a seat. It was mile seven, when she sat in that weed infested litter strewn ditch and bawled like a little girl from pain that she thought of calling the mom and asking her to pick her up and give her a ride home. Through her hot tears and muscle cramps she realized the shame she now was mom and getting old hurts.

Pack a lunch. It's a long trip.

Road Games

I have been asked, "Munkay Girl, how DO you stay sane during car trips with two young boys?" Ok, if any of you know me, the lucidity of that inquiry explains that it is only me who asks this. But I will answer it here and now anyway. I know with summer over, your family vacation time has past for the season. Practice these now and you will be ready for next year.

I'll start with my favorite, "Next Dead Thing".
Next Dead thing is an easy one, all ages can play. Not many skills involved. Basically some family member yells out,"What's the next dead thing?" We each must rapidly come up with an answer. "Racoon", I most often shout, knowing that critter has the highest mortality rate on blacktop. Deer, turtle, squirrel, bird, rabbit, are the most popular choices that follow, depending on our location and time. "Cat" my feline hater Hubby will wishfully answer, often. When the novelty of this game wears thin we kick it up. "Elephants, lemurs and jackals have been spotted and argued over. We have turned around to examine an armadillo. Yes, we all conceded that there has been armadillos taken down in Minnesota. When you become experienced at this one, wagers can be placed. "If the next dead thing we see is a turtle, we listen to the Bowie CD again". "Coon is Smash Mouth". "Deer is Toby Keith". No wait, Toby is country, if we see a deer, YOU will be the next dead thing. "Cat is talk radio". Nooo- play talk radio and I will throw myself in front of a car. Anything that vaguely resembles a deer or a cat and I speed up and yelp, "What?, I didn't see anything, didn't see anything."

Another good one is "Name Plate". You read the letters on the license plate of the driver in front of you and come up with a descriptive name for the car or driver using each letter on their plate to begin the name. We have followed Moron Iron Recluse, and Slow Nappy Lamppost. It's the Dumb Angry Stinkpots that cut you off or the Stupid Rat Sniffers you gotta watch out for. Personally I currently drive Every Retards Enabler on my bad days and Extra Ritchous Entity during my up ones.

We also make up stories about the other drivers we pass. Our form of "What's your Line".
The station wagon driver with the Wisconsin plates is really an underground cheese smuggler earning money on the black market until he gets his big break on "American Idol".
The Honda driver with one blue door on his grey car is in the witness protection plan and is going home to polish the Rolls Royce that is now hidden, never to be used again in his new garage. He changed his name to Ricardo and has taken up salsa dancing to ease the pain of leaving his pet iguana, Iggy behind.
The frumpy lady with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth is going to work at GNC were she will sell the supplements to the high school swim team member who will eventually grow web feet and win the gold in breaststroke in the Olympics. Everyone has a story.

My Hubys favorite is a nice quiet one we call, "Snake in the Ho". There are few words to "Snake in the Ho". You make a fist, Now turn your fist, thumb side up and loosen your grip just enough to made a small hole. Now you are ready. Find someone to challenge, preferable the person sitting next to you. Smack them on their upper thigh with your fist and taunt, "Snake in the Ho". They now have to stick a finger, or "snake" into your hole before you can react and tighten your grip and trap their finger. We have occupied ourselves with countless games of "Snake in the Ho" over the years. I find if I can lull my opponent's ho into unsuspecting relaxation by repeatedly circling their trap by running my finger tip around the ho before jamming my finger and pulling out to escape fast. K2 is very good at this game- his little finger are speedy and in and gone by the time my grip can contract.

The game my boys came up with is "Most Irritating Noise Ever". Started out with one of them cracking their knuckles. Unknowing, I told them, "Stop that, that is the most irritating noise ever. They took it as a challenge. Fart noise followed. Opera singing and yodaling next. Then the auctioneering began. "Do I hear five bucks to drive Mom nuts? Five bucks?" "FIVE!" "Now ten who's got ten, ten, ten bucks to see mom lose it...."
So far in that game the winner is a draw between K1's high pitched "Ooyeeeeeeee", (imagine a hyper Jewish pig) and K2' soft and moist "buzzz- buzzzzssss" right in the ear when you least expect it. I suggest always driving with a backup adult in the car while playing this. We were heading downtown one day with my full-grown nephew riding shot gun as I drove. My sons launch into this game with out the benefit of telling Cuz the rules. I was enjoying a stimulating adult conversation in the front seat when interrupted by, "Bbbuzzzzz- buzzzzsssss", in my ear. "Stop! I admonish and slap the air by my head. They was my downfall, losing all control at that point. Soon it sounded like a swarm of bees in may car. When this background noise escalates into "Oye, oye, ooyeeeee" I snap and break every rule of motherhood. "KNOCK IT OFF", I beller, spittle flying from my mouth. The volume goes down but does not stop. "Grab the wheel Cuz !", I shout. "Huh?", answers my nephew all big eyed and scared. "Take the stinking wheel, damn it, take the WHEEL!!" Nephew obliges and takes the wheel allowing me to turn in my seat and swing at the devils in the back unhindered by by having to steer as I drive. We never did make it all the way into the city that day. We stopped for a nice cup of decaf coffee and an attitude realignment before Cuz drove us back home.

I wonder if anyone was playing "What's Your Line" when they seen us on our return ride that day. Would any one of thought, "There is a nice family, on their way home from a trip into the inner city after reading to nursing home residence and handing out homeade cookies and slippers to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of the mom who is staring out the window so blankly. Or was it, "Narrowly escaping a mass-murder suicide, the young man driving commandeered the vehicle before his aunt attempted any vehicular homicide before returning home to redecorated her bathroom walls with melted crayons and empty Frito chip bags. Makes ya wonder.

Chicken Love.

If you haven't guessed,
and if I'm right,
there's something now
within my sight.
It's not my game
but I don't care.
I won't praise your face or hair
although I could
you do draw eyes.
I hope it's not a big surprise
that I think your...
sufficently adequate.
There. I said it.
Now pretend to forget it.

One Bean Club Reject

My father fixed things. He worked as the mechanic in the rural northern farming town I grew up in. Dad repaired every thing from the seasonal tourists luxury import cars to the locals harvesting equipment. He and his best friend, Dan, who owned the garage Dad worked at even designed and built their own machines. A small town Monster Garage circa 1977 that produced more powerful and effective cultivators and swathers and one of a kind tractors made out of a variety of cast-off pieces. The few times I visited my Dads work, Dan had scared the willies out of me. Amazingly large, this dark hair man would tower over me as I held the wild blueberry pie Mom had sent in for his birthday coffee break. Trembling, I would stand in that gasoline and oil smelling shop and stare at the top of my feet. Had I every been brave enough to look up I would of seen him smiling down at the top of my tow head.

Dan had gotten sick and not been at work, Dad told us one night at the dinner table. Soon Dan missed a lot of work. The area doctor sent him to the specialists, in the largest close city, three hours away. Dan never did come back to the garage. Dad was never the same. I do not remember what it was Dan was formally diagnosed with. I just knew by my parents serious hushed conversations, Dan was not going to get better. The garage was sold.

Dan and his family spent a lot of time at the hospital out of town. They had to as Dan's kidneys failed and he relied on dialysis to keep him alive. Hospital and hotel bills soon ate up the profits from the sale of the garage. Dan wanted to come home. Everyone wanted Dan home. My town of two hundred people pulled together to raise funds to bring Dan back . Dad would go over to Dans house straight from his new job to refurbish Dan's basement to accommodate for a dialysis machine to be installed.

It was the front page story of the local newspaper the day of Dan's homecoming. The feature article pictured a much smaller frail looking man smiling weakly than I had remembered. The specially trained diagnostic technician who accompanied Dan home was interview about the modern medical wonder of the huge machine that now predominated Dan's new basement and life. My parents would visit that basement often before both it's inhabitants would leave never to return. My Dad did what he could for his friend.

My friend, Curly Haired Heidi, I, like Dad, met through work. We never got so far as to construct a machine but together we have came up with a few great costume designs and story lines. We talk often. Largely because she has received a kidney transplant and we can empathsis with the trial's we both experience due to drugs and complications. Recently, when I questioned her as I do almost daily on how she was feeling, Heidi answered; "Good, considering I'm dyeing of kidney failure." As much as I love her for unfailing honesty, I prefer illusion to despair. It does not come as a surprise, yet I have no appropriate response to her news. I make lame jokes instead.

It took me some time to accept her announcement. In the mean time, I devise ways of hunting her a new kidney. None of them practical. I cannot travel with a sharp knife and a cooler of ice. I am unable to seduce a stranger to leave him unconscious and hooked to and I.V. in a hotel like the urban legion of the man to woke up to discover himself left with only one kidney. I don't have the funds to buy her a black market organ. Hell, I can't even build her a basement. Then a thought came to me, "What's that Dan? Give her one of mine?" Ok.

I had made Heidi the offer before. But I'm sure she had heard many vaguely empty offers of , "If there is anything I can do to help....." It made perfect sense to me. I make a good guinea pig. It took me a year of evaluations and tests before deemed fit and healthy enough for the case study for my clinical trail. My data is a recorded. My kidneys have already been exposed to the transplant drugs. Being a diabetic, I knew I always had the risk myself of experiencing my own kidney failure if I were to experience long term blood sugar complications. My kidneys are healthy and unharmed by my years of diabetes. Why would I not chose the lesser risk of what could happen someday when Heidi is unsure of tomorrow?

Hubby takes my news that I plan on becoming a donor very stoically. With the same calm expression he listens as when I had announced to him Heidi and I were planning on becoming blacksmith apprentices for the next year or so to have stellar costume armor. He knows better than to argue once my mind is made up. Hubby also is a member of what we call "The one bean club". Initiation basically is you function one one kidney, and have the scars to for bragging rights.

The trasplant coordinator I first spoke with at the Mayo clinic was very nice. When she found out my blood type was compatible she was almost as enthuseastic as I felt. Our excitement grew as she quizzed me on my physical history. The right age and weight, I have no heart disease, blood pressure problems, no history of kidney infections. I've had no major recent surgeries. No alcohol, drugs or depression. I was so high with possibility I must of missed any negative tone in her voice as I told her of the anti- rejection drugs I already take. "I will look over your medical file and when Heidi's case coordinator is back, Charise will contact you."

I was actually watching the phone when it rang that afternoon. "Hello", I answer in my best lab munkay voice. "Munkay Girl, this is Charise from the Mayo Hospital, the friendly voice on the other end of my receiver announces. "Yes", I answer standing up as strong and tall as possible. "I'm sorry to tell you but because of your transplant, you are an ineligible candidate for a donor for Heidi due to the risk you would put be putting yourself in. "But I am aware of any risk, I have always had a chance of risk", I babble. "I'm extremely fit and bounce back quicker than anything". I am pleading now, trying to sell myself to her. One step away from telling her I only use the kidney on Sundays now at church. "I'm good at medical tests and have peed in cups for years", I wheedle. "Yes, I understand", Charise explains very diplomatlicly, "if it wasn't for the prescriptions you are currently taking, you might have been a good match." "But..", I try to continue. "But, Charise finishes it for me, "you could be putting more risk on Heidi than she is already experiencing. I deflate at this rejection. I suck at rejection. "So now what do I do?", I ask hoping she has some secret happy cure that she will enlighten me with. "You are her cousin, make sure your family is supportive of her at this time." "No, I am her friend", I answer defiantly and I hang up the phone. "And I will build her a damn basement for her family to party with her in after she does get her new kidney", I say to myself.

Can anyone tell me how to swing a hammer?

A Half Finish Finnish.

Sister Heidi owns a flower shop in a quaint looking town that is mostly populated by Swedes not far from here. The cities water tower has been modified with a pour spout and handle and toll-painted to resemble a Scandinavian coffee pot. Blue and yellow, the colors of Swedins flag, adorn every paintable surface. Fire hydrants were granted special ordinances allowing them to sport the same color theme. All other hues used there are looked at with the same disdain as graffiti. Bulk herring is advertised in the local butcher shops window, as are krumkaka and ginger snaps across the street at the bakery. "Got Jul", or Merry Christmas, is spelled out in holiday lights at both ends of town as you enter during the month of December. You can't swing a dead cat for hitting a dala horse. There has been rumors of cross burnings on the lawns of those foolish enough to publicly admit to not being of Swedish descent. Citizens who are not flat brod (white bread) are run out on a rail. I know the night is coming when Sister Heidi will be working late at her shop and the local inhabitants will appear caring pitch forks and waving flaming torches to drive her away. The rival florist at its lead. Beauty (Sis) and the Beast (townsfolk). But Sister Heidi will be ready.

Sister Heidi is a byproduct of a mixed marriage. Her mum a half breed, was equal parts Swedish and Norwegian. Mumsy was prejudice against herself. "Grampa Eric, (who was a Swede), used to say,"You can tell those Norwegians, but you can't tell them much.""Those Swedes just don't know when to quit", Norsk Gramma used to reinerate. Sister Heidi's mum must have grown up hearing these phrases so often she would parrot them without thought. I wonder if she ever realized she was slamming herself.

Her dad was a full blooded Fin who didn't limit himself with prejudice. He flat disliked everyone who wasn't a Fin. But espescially the Russians. Dads family were members of the white death, an illete Finnish killing force during WWII. When the heavily armed and highly trained Russians invaded, Dads country successfully held off the well equipped communists without the benefit of a formal army using only hand made weapons. They earned their name, white death, from their viciously imorovised battle tactics. Dressed all in white to blend in with the snowy background, they would ski silently up to the Russians encroaching tanks that invaded their homeland borders and pour water on the solders who were inside. Water soaked, the Fins opposition would almost instantly freeze to death, saving even the price of a bullet, but gaining a fully equipped tank. Having only hunting rifles, Sis Heidi's ancestors invented the first rapid secession firing rifles. Loggers, who were born with an axe in their hand, would fell more than lumber using their tools of trade. Type in the word Fin into your search engine. Instantly you access a million suppliers of knives. Fins have an internal love of all things sharp and pointy.

Sister Heidi is proud of all three of her nationality's. She denies none of her heritage. But she has yet to hang a blue and yellow flag on her blommer shop. She is brazen enough to paint hers a neon green. She does not partake in the community's annual lutifisk dinners. No, strange forien aromas, like curry, waft through the shop. She plays an eclectic variaty of music during busniess hours. On Svetin Die Mi, there is no pole dancing, she down right closes up early and goes home. Her Suomi family name hangs challengingly in front of her store.

But they will come for her, oh yes they will come. Sister Heidi will be calmly designing something with orchids from the east, and tulips from down under when they do. With her calm Mona Lisa smile, she will swiftly fillet them in between heartbeats with her razor sharp and ever ready florist knife. Her wardrobe favors green. Watch out for any silently moving scrubery if you unknownly slight her. Make sure you stop by to admire her newly fertilized gardens on your passing. Ignore any one sided solo arguments you may overhear. Just stop and smell the blommers.

God Help the Children

This past week the local news sickened me. Past the point of revulsion. I refuse to watch it broadcast any longer. Because it struck home.

I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed on Monday and listening to the 10 o'clock broadcast, when the story of a young teenage girl with cerebral palsey who had been gang raped by a group of young men was aired. The males, who's ages ranged from fourteen through adult, had video taped their violations that had occurred numerous times. The boys claim the sex had been consensual. The fifteen year old girl has the mental capacity of an eight year old. I was shaking with rage as I set down my toothbrush and stared disbelieving at the TV screen.

As a mother of a child who was also born with cerebral palsey, the thought of the contemptible atrocity those boys did burned me to the very core. I sympathize with the hell that girls poor mother must be going through. Had it been my child who had been hurt, I would of hunted them all down individuality and beat them savagely within an inch of their life, before turning them in. I know forgiveness would be my main objective, eventually, but first justice. I would have no qualms about turning vigilante, leaving them scarred for life, least they ever forget the pain they had caused. I would not depend on our judicial system to teach them how to make incarceration a way of life. Guaranteed they would not become a repeat offender. It was a disgusting feeling knowing that could of been my kid.

On Tuesday the boys tutor came for her weekly visit with my boys. As she was leaving, she mentions, "Well they don't know yet if Mickey will be charged as an adult." Mickey is in my sons grade at school. Same age, they both attend some of the special ed classes, and have since kindergarten. Seeing the blank look on my face at this news, the tutor fills me in. Mickey was arrested for attempted murder. He had stabbed the neibor girl twenty times as she slept. The girls mom were out walking with Mickeys mom, they are best friends, when Mickey broke in her bedroom. No one knows why Mickey did this. This is so out of caricature for this angle faced boy. His dad is the town cop. His mom is the most sought after teacher in our elementary. They are not just surface nice but genuinely sincerely good people. Volunteer in the community, active in church. Mickey mom was den leader in scouts all the years our kids were in them. Her husband would help the kids to earn special badges and bring in his patrol car for the boys to see. Mickey was the only one of the pack that would take the time to come over to play with my baby, unlike the rest of the boys. No one can figure out what caused Mickey to do this. The news, without any foundation, speculated it had to be drug related. Other than when his dad gives the Dare presentations, Mikey has never seen a drug in his life. And they want to try him as an adult. It's a disgusting feeling knowing this could have been my kid.

Maybe things will work out for Mikey and he will be placed in the same facillity as the group of boys who raped the handicapped girl. Then what ever happens to him will be considered consensual. Might even learn how to play the system.

I know what Mickey did was not right. I'm not even sure if he made a conscious decision before he acted, he is still in a daze. And it was not lack of morals or responsibility on his part. The other boys, I'm sure had reasons, justifiable or not, that lead them to do what they did. But there was an adult included in their actions. And the mental abitilty to tell them what they were doing was wrong.

I can only hope, our judicial system is smart enough to see a difference.

Additions and Modifications to HPI

Because of the flood of responses, I have had a guilt-a-pult erected on Happy Place Island. Shortly after your arrival, if you walk, no have one of the "boys" carry you past the hot chocolate springs you will see the new addition. Immediately you are to place all ex-boy friends, or more importantly the bad memories into its cockpit and launch it off the island. Particularly painful ones will be pointed towards the hot lava pit. Little pestery recollections will be fired off toward the sunset were the rest of us will skeet shoot them out of the sky for you. If we only wing them, the sharks will finish them off for our entertainment and amusement. Guilt will also be extracted by the same means. Although you will not be able to load any physical baggage in it, feel free to toss in any negative body image you may harbor. Same goes for inhibitions. Celulight will now be known as dimples. Acne is beauty marks. Male friend Mitches are welcome, no expected here also. Please excuse me, peeled grapes and fanning await.