Runaway Kook

If it wasn't for that cow on the side of the Kemps dairy truck, I wouldn't be here right now. Not in my home, or in this state either. Probley nor even on this continent for that matter. The time it took that semi to make a leisurely left hand turn west onto highway 8, was all the time I needed to change my mind and abandon my brilliant scheme. It was that heifer's face looking back at me with it's large soft brown eyes along with the Kemps company motto, "It's the cows", written underneath it that reminded me of Robert B's eyes, and the promise I had made him for dinner.

Work at the rehab center has not been running smoothly. Both my patience and my tolerance has been worn thin due to the mountain of added responsibility, and increased work load crammed into my over long work day. Coworkers, instead of being of help, exist only to cause me irritation lately. My mind, when aloud the luxury of a daydream, wraps it's self around foot rubs and warm solitary bed fantasies. This past weekend, when the walk in cooler and freezer sighed it's last tempt breath, it was the nudge that sent me cursing over the edge. My heart sunk with a loud thud hitting the now barren metal cooler causing a rippling effect in the strategically placed lakes surrounding the compound. Then I thought of the pending alumni reunion coming in for a long weekend and me with no refridgeration to uphold my food sanity. As much as I longed to crawl under the desk in the back store room and curl up, hugging my knees to my chest while I rock maniacally and babble in devil tongue, I did the next best thing. I commandeered in a somewhat shady manner the company van and planned to pick up my needed perishables from the main kitchen and transport all of them back across campus to my kitchen between each meal. That would have been a breeze had each meal not consisted of a dozen loaded carts of industrial sized food stuffs. Tossing the last of my necessities for dinner into the van, the gallon sized plastic jug of thousand island dressing slipped out of my hands and landed on the cement, exploding on contact, and covering me from the knees to toes in stinky orange goo. My mind was beyond pandemonium at that point. It was t minus one hour forty five minutes to have two entrees, a carbohydrate and choice of veg plus a salad bar and desert ready for sixty hungry expectant guests. The shelf live of my reasoning ability had reached it expiration point.

I left that broken jug of dressing right where it landed, at the base of the steps into the big kitchen. I had also dropped all premise of rational as I sat perched on the edge of the illicit van's seat, clutching on the the steering wheel to be able to reach the pedals. I hoped the big lout who had moved the seat all the way back and jammed it, so I had to drive like a little munkay just handed a loaded gun, slipped in my mess, and hurt himself, bad.

The campus was already teeming with new arrivals. As I politely waited as the pokey pedestrains meandered across my service road/walking path, I hatched my plan.

I had a large loaded van with with food and a tank full of gas. A very non descriptive vehicle. All I had to do was make a series of turns out of this compound and head to the open road and freedom. Easy does it, my ass, I thought, when my nervous eyes spotted the company's encouraging road sign posted to remind all abusers as well as all drivers to slow down, as I made my first turn onto the road towards a new life. Move now, you dawdling group of penguins posing as promenaders, I'm out of here.

I would pick my boys up at their school on my way, and call my supervisor, explaining vaguely I had a huge incident to buy myself time before he called the authority's and reported the van stolden. I could put many miles between hell and destiny before they called the cops. Buy enough time to snatch some new plates in another state even, I planned as I was finally able to pull out onto the service road. I grinned as I imagined a group of starving rioters pillaging my listing kitchen with flaming torches and fighting over the goldfish crackers I had left behind.

My kids would love our adventure. I would let them pick out their new hair colors at some Walmart in Iowa. Heck they could even pick out their new names. Of course I would stop by my bank on 8 and empty some of the accounts. I would have K1, I mean Marly, as he has always liked that name, in the front seat with me, with sunglasses and a linen napkin fashioned into a turban of sorts wrapped around his head to give the illusion, when the teller is questioned later, and the security camera footage scanned, that I may be being abducted by a terrorist.

I would stop by a few construction sites on my way south and send charming K2, er, Otto out to sell lunches to hungry workers at break time from the supplies in our getaway van to further our pocket money and lighten our load. Get out of my way damn you, you smug maitenance driver in your issued company vehicle. South America is waiting for me.

I will drop the van off at some airport in say, Ohio, to throw any unwanted heat off our trail. By that time, all the steaks blood will be mixed with the pork blood that will have dripped off of the raw meat in back and onto the van's floor and the time it takes for the lab tests to confirm they are not mine or the kids will jigsaw our puzzle even more. Then I can buy myself a nice little black el Camino circa 1978 that I have always wanted well since 1978. I don't care if you are a staff member or not there sister, walk like you mean it or I will be wearing you on the outside of this get a way van.

How hard would it be for me and the kids to get across the border into a warm third world country.?Gotta be much easier than getting in. My breathing became a little faster as I pulled onto Pleasant Orchard Road, off the foundations land , as I pictured the clean little ocean village I would soon be calling home. I would open a jerk chicken stand on the beach, my kids like fire, and I would make our living selling barbecue to the affluent tourist. Or perhalps a coffee stand where I would be a barista named Geta and the locals would come for a cup and a story of my homeland, Norway, and my family who had all died in an unexpected avalanche while herding the sheep that supplied the wool needed for the manufacturing of Ugg boots. Marly will teach travelers to string flower lai's and Otto will study marine biology. If anyone trys to speak Norwegin to me, I will burst into tears and clain I am to despondant to reply in my native tounge. We will only allow ourselves to miss our past as we sit cooking our sweet potato lefsa on a hot rock in our fire pit on Christmas, and plan for the day I can tell Hubby of our whereabouts, after he has retired and cashes in his pension, to join us. I cannot tell him sooner, as he cannot lie and the police would see through him faster than the clear sea saltwater that will be in the taffy I will manufacture and slip notes in, fortune cookie style, before shipping back to Minnesota to maintain correspondence with my family behind.

Areosmith, Cake, Systems of the Down, Rolling Stones and even a new PSP to keep me and the kids entertained on the long drive went on the Walmart shopping list in my mind as I squeezed my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel so I would not slide back in the seat and be unable to reach the accelerator once the semi in front of me finally pulls into traffic onto highway 8. I must remember a large cushion to brace my back as long as I'm there, or I will never be able to drive the entire trip, I thought.

It was then the semi pulled into traffic and I caught sight of those beautiful bovine eyes pleading with me. Roberts eyes. His license plate on his Mercedes reads Dr Bear. And he is a sweet teddy bear of a doctor man. He has been back at recovery almost a month now. I am always glad to see him and he is polite and often asks after my kids. I share my adventures on my day off with him and I show him pictures of my family. I try to make a special effort to cook healthy alternatives for Robert. He vaguely mentioned once to me he likes kale, and I told him I would see what I could do to get my hands on some for him. Robert has told me if he does not take care of his body, and what he eats, he is more tempted to abuse chemicals again. The thought of him backsliding and start using again could mean the possibility of him unintentionally hurting one of his patents. I could not live like that, even on a beach front nirvana.

All I thought about when I turned that grey van around at the stop sign was weather or not the bale of kale in the back would taste good with a smathering of thousand island dressing.

Clique

The picture was taken so long ago, I had forgotten it had existed. I barely recognize us in it. My home girls. Five girl friends till the end. Looking at how young we are there, babies really, it makes me feel old. That was the last time we were all together.

It was taken on my best friends wedding day. Well more exactly on the day after the ceremony, during the gift opening party at her parents house. We are all tired, slightly hung over, and sad, as we pose one last time on the front steps before leaving for mostly good, on that Sunday afternoon so long ago. We all know life as we know it will never be the same for us. But we are excited for the future too. And happy, if not envious of our friend for having just married the man of her dreams and is about to depart to start her new life far away from us.

That's Diania on the far end of the steps we are all lined up. Bold and straight forward, Diania confidently looks directly into the camera's lens. It is her camera that takes this picture. We all admire her for the courage it has taken her as she recently moved to the big city and started photography classes on her own. She is the one who directed and organized us all to sit still for this. After she meets her abusive husband, and her family shuns her when she finally divorces him, it will be along time before she is able to look anyone, especially her self straight in the eye. It is years before I hear her infectious laughter pour out of her again.

Laney is sitting besides Dianna, mouth wide open in a nervous laugh. I know she is uncomfortable having this picture taken. She was not aloud her required two hours primping time before we all sat down and throw our arms around each other. Even though she is slightly slumped down, like she is wishing her body could fold it's self in on herself to hide, the body a brick shit house would envy, is visible. Maybe it is the stress of live as a single mother, or being the parent of a spoilt beast, that has caused Laney to gorge herself to unhealthy proportions, and rarely leave her apartment except to her dental practice.

There is Carry, front and center, as it should be, it is her day. She has been the main attraction for the long weekend and she has her practiced smile and head tilt down to a T. Her white blond hair is shining like a halo, and she looks so happy. She still does to this day. The desicion she made that weekend was the right one, young and inexperienced as she was. Her boys resemble her. They were well worth all the difficulties it took for her to have them. Big sky country has smiles down on her from the photo's she sends me of the mountain biking trips or her latest promotion with her career.

Then there is Laury, sitting taller than any of us, head back, long beautiful red hair tumbling around her face, bright blue eyes closed in laughter. I hope it is a reflex causing her to close her eyes, and not that she is still intoxicated from the previous night, or the voices telling her not to look. Damn those voices that stole Big Red's future. Why did she listen to them? The excess of alcohol, then drugs, sex, and now food and cigarettes were trying to abate what infallible hunger in her? Why could none of us seen where she was headed and helped her?

And that's me on the end. Looking at my friends out of the corner of my eye, hoping to freeze this moment in my mind for eternity. I look softer and rounder than I can ever remember being. At that point in my life, I had no set plans for my future. Of all of us, I have changed my vocation, location, and appearance the most. I can even remeber what I thought as the shutter closed. "C'mon already take the picture. I'm not going to ever forget this and my butt hurts from sitting on this cement in these tight jeans. I have a life to get on with. And if you don't take it soon I'm going to burst into tears."

This picture was worth a thousand words when it was taken. It is priceless with memories now.

Spirit of Renewal

First of all, I just want to state I do not believe in ghosts. Nope, the paranormal only live in other people's minds. They are not real. I do believe people think they have seen the unknown, but until I have some reliable solid facts, I hold boogy men incredible. Even more strange, I do know that I personally think that I once, not only seen, but had a short conversation with on as well. But that was a while back and time has a way with making one doubt their own memory. Since then I have come up with umpteen million explanations for my ethereal experience. But that story is for another time.
It seams, however, that I have been working closely with one for the past five months. My co-workers were reluctant to tell me of the phenomena I have deemed Bojangales, for fear I would not work by myself in the satilight kitchen across campus from the main kitchen. From what I have discovered, my company has had a hard time keeping staff in my position because of Bojangales surprise appearances. Now if my co-workers would not have let their sightings slip, I would have been happy in my nieve little world. I would blamed the misplaced thermometers and the bumps in the night as just that, forgetfulness and noise. But now I am always on edge. And in doubt. I do not believe there is anyone there with me, but with the darkness that invades our waning daylight hours, darkness invades my mind.
There are many times when I am in the building all alone. My kitchen is part of the alumni lodge, where gaduates of the recovery program return to stay for follow up treatment. Often the front offices close at five. So frequently it is just me, one little munkay, and up to thirty guests, and come to find out, Bojangles. After dinner, when the guest speakers are lecturing in the main auditorium hall, it is just me and Jangy.
Jangy, by my understanding, first made his appearance to Heidi one night as she was locking the walk in cooler door and Jangy was on the inside, looking out at her through the glass window in the door. Heidi left the satilight kitchen never to return. Sent a matenance man over to retrieve her keys. Yes, I tell myself, they was her own reflection she seen, but she claims she has never worn glasses, Jangy does. So says Mitch, who claims to have seen a vaporous bespeckled man him in the hall leading to the loading dock more than once.
Mostly Jangy is friendly and tries to help. When he tipped over the seventy pound silverware rolling machine in the locked dry storage, and moved the napkins across the room and in between the cases of pop for little ninety pound old Heidi, well that was just mischievous. Helping the housekeepers by spraying cleaning solvents across walls and turning on showers shows Jangy is really going the extra mile. He helps the guest check out by always having the luggage trolleys outside the right doors in the mornings before the receptionists day begins. The tales of him singing through intercom systems that are not longer connected, well that to me is just far-fetched. I want to think that the mechanical hulk who patrols my building is on my side on the non-existence of this haunt, being as soon as I mention Jangy, his mouth gets all tight as he closes his hand securely around his flashlight and he immediately begins fidgeting with the buttons on his walky-talky as he hastens away.
To deal with this spooky notion, I have to to think of Jangy as my imaginary friend. "New friend!", I will announce before entering an uninhabited room. ( I do now wish to surprise him or offend him if he does not like the name I have given him.) " Man, it sure is quiet in here I hope it stays this way", I will ponder out loud, as often as I utter, "Now it just isn't nice to scare a lady, or me." I hope he has a sense of humor. I have even been thoughtful enough to leave my little buddy notes. " Please file my inventory sheets. Double check the sham controls. I will see if my productivity increases. I just know I get done at work a hell of a lot faster now. Remind me to leave a thank you note.

If I had Only said....

"I weigh one hundred and thirty pounds tops there Dr. Dumbass. That is not fat. I know the diabetic diet plan and the hypoglycemic food index inside/outside/upside down. My cholesterol is better than yours. You spend the next hour with the dietician and I'll bill you 150. big ones."

"No, my dad is not home right now. But you already know that. So I'll just breath into the phone for awhile and you'll give me an A for this quarters algebra. And I'll hate numbers for the rest of my school days and long into adulthood. Goodbye."

"If henna is a safe natural way to bring out my hairs own red highlights, do it to your own hair Sis. I like my blond hair. But I think seeing you with burnt carrot orange hair would be worth it. It will grow out or break off in time."

"No, you do not have to love it like it was your own. It is, after all, the Rocks baby. But thanks for saying that right after I took the early pregnancy test Hubby."

"Show me YOUR tits. Man boobies really turn me one. And I'll stop waving these enticing beads."

"Not another thing that needs feeding is coming into the house." (What I should of said after the first dog, the first cat, the first bird, the first fish, the first cow, the first plant, the first spare boy.)

"Drugs? No! Contraband fruit yes! I so enjoy a good cavity search. And I'm a lesbian too boot, even better. Bring it on Butchy!"

"Ride the "wild thing" again? I'll just save us the time and money and throw up on you right here and now!"

"Just buy a new spark plug to be sure for pitys sake. I'm really not stupid enough to hold a wrench to that piece of metal while standing in wet grass as you pull the cord."

"Stay with me and tell the hairdresser I am a girl. I am too shy to tell her that I am not a boy and will be traumatized when she cuts my hair soo short. I will never again be able to wear my hair short, even it is obvious I am female."

"GIRL FRIEND COMES HOME? What the hell do you mean, girl friend comes home. Hand me my clothes you pig."

"Angle food, red velvet, crumb-now that is cake. Climbing all the way up here, tresspassing on private property with this massive home made bungie contraption of sorts, is not cake. Carry me back down."

"Yes, I'll dance." (Should have been said to Tom Balerd. I thought he said, "Wet your pants? yes he was that hot, that I could not imagine him dancing with me. I could imagine myself wetting myself however- so I ran to the bathroom instead.)

"No, I do not believe you. I have stopped arguing with you, not that I agree with you, but to better my view the smoke that any second will start pouring out of my own ass. Ow! Your nose just took out my eye!"

"Give me the painkillers now while my window of opportunity is open, don't hold back." (Go through labor and you will be nodding your head right now.)

"Take me with you to South Dakota, Dale. I will not let you spend every last cent of your savings and inheritance buying a sick race horse."

"No pastor Paul, I will never be back to fulfill my confirmation requirements. Instead I will be plagued with vague guilt right up to the point I stop practicing Lutheranism."

"So what if I do have long trombone playing arms, Mr. Weiner? I want to play the drums. Let me pound my heart out for you. Your band can find someone more geeky to play trombone."

"I will draw and quarter you if you insist I butcher frozen chickens, so you can save a buck ten per case. What is my time worth here, ever figure that one out? I will slap you sensible with my iceberg hands, cheese natzi."

"Sufficiently adequate, am I? Our pool boy says I'm the best he's ever had." (Ok so I did say that one out loud, I just wanted someone other than Hubby to hear.)

"I'm too heavy to get a gig as an airline stewardess am I? Heavy is this anvil I'm about to drop on your head."

"Of course I have room for dessert. Bring two you wimp."

"Try selling me an extended warranty one more time, and I"m using this appliances own cord to strangle you. No means no."

"Oh, you wish you could eat like me do you? Well it's obvious you do. You just gotta learn to work that mother load once and awhile eh."

"I'm glad my child puked that nasty medicine up all over you there Dr Screwball Mc Gooball. When he is here for nausea, he is nauseous. Try vet school. Quack."

"I'm naming the baby after you, dad. I'm not taking the two more weeks, which you don't have, to tell you."

"No, I won't marry you Roy, because I am way way too young. Please forget I just yelled. "Help, my hair is caught in your door handle."

"Yes, your son should have married "the nice one." How I wish it was her here right now, instead of me."

"If chasing you around the kitchen table brandishing a broken glass keg-o-ketchup is evil, than yes, I'm evil. But you are gonna clean this mess up and go with me to church in the morning damn it."

Would my life had turned out any better if I had said these at the opertune time? Maybe, but probly not, because if I had gotten myself into these places in the first place...

Auto Erotic

I have been to a variety of live entertainment events, but this was the first time I have ever been to a burn out contest. The church that I frequent holds an annual car show and tire burn, but I have never quite fully comprehended it's appeal before today. Yes, my church is unorthodox in sponsoring such an event, but they want to reach out to those who would not normal feel welcomed in a house of worship. No bingo players or potluck eaters here. Nothing conventional about this place. Or the people who were in attendance.

It was a beautiful dog day afternoon. I was styling in my new marimekko tee shirt and had worn my biker boots to fit in with the crowd. Hubby and I took our sons and a couple spare neibhoorhood boys and hit the place full of ethuseasim. The kids soon left us to shop the vendors and admire the rows of gleaming cars and motorcycles . Hubby and I ate pork chops on a stick and danced to some blues rock music the band played from the roof of the church. Ok, I danced around my husband, as he stood there trying not to look embarrassed.

It was worth going to just to people watch. It is a different caliber of people who attend car shows. Lots of middle aged women squeezed into too tight of jeans and dirty leather halter tops. Men with mullets wearing faded tee shirts that read, "Have a good day, fuck someone!" or better yet, "Show me your tits bitch." I watched one befuddled man, carrying a twenty once beer stagger between rows of cars until he came to the front doors of the church, where he proceeded to sway his way inside, still holding his beverage. He immediately came back out and looked up to read the name of the church on the huge sign over the building. Shaking his head, he set his bottle gently in the large sand ashtray on the side of the door and entered again. His beer was safe until he came back out to finish it.

We were front and center on the bleachers when the tire burn out started. A special slab of concrete had been poured for the event and the concrete barriers kept us all safe. For two and a half hours, contestants from all over the states lined up their vehicles for their chance to strut their stuff. The fire truck stood close by, as one by one, the took their turn on the strip.Holding their front brakes on, the revved their engines, causing their back tires to spin and smoke. The more smoke they created, the louder we cheered, and if they managed to blow their tires we roared. "Mom, are you ok? You look kinda sunburned. Oops! Sorry Mom, didn't mean to drop my sticky icy on yah. It will wash out. Does your nose feel like it is coated in hot rubber too? I gotta pee. The loud rumbling of the engines cause my bladder to vibrate. Take me now." "There, K2, the bathrooms are right in there. I'm going to look at this tricked out jeep while you go. Be right here when you come out." I am looking at the car of my dreams. a jacked up red jeep CJ7 customized. I walk by too close and hit its chromed side mirror and bend it slightly ascrew. I frantically try to straighten it before it's owner spots me raping his car. Proud car owners are very peticular about people touching their babies. "Kay!" I hear a male voice close by my ear. No one calls me by this shorten form of my name. It is to intimate, too public, I am momentarily at loss. "Hey Kay, do you like what you see?" It is Bills voice. Only he ever called me that. I do not want to turn to face him. I cannot wait to spin and get a look at him. "Bill! You know what I like. " The juvenile little girl inside me could not resist. She prayed he could not see her soul shaking on the inside. We had both shared a common love of jeeps. And of each other. I should of known such a beautiful automobile would belong to him. "Been a long time. How are you doing?" Right now I am so utterly wonderful, I can not tell you what I am doing here or where I parked. Shut up with the small talk. Just let me look at you before you profess you undying love to me. "Wonderful. I'm wonderful. And it looks like you are doing good too eh?" Go ahead, give me the signal. One motion and I hop in this car with you and we drive off into the sunset. Give me a reason. "Still got your red wrangler?" The one we laid across the hood on, watching the stars and drinking champane from each other lips? The one you would sneak over and polish for me before you left a flower on my seat? "No, I drive a Cherokee wagon now."I cried as I watched that wrangler pull out of my driveway for the last time. Same as I cried after telling you goodbye. "Mom, here I am. Let's go see the smoke." "Is this one yours?" "Yes, one of them."That is what fleeting across his face? Surprise? Disappointment? Envy?I do not think to make introductions. I just stand and grin as K2 tugs my hand impatiently and takes off a cross the parking lot towards the bleachers. "I have to get back to my family now." Oh shit. I forgot I have one. If my legs work, I will try to tear myself away, but right now I am memorizing your handsome face and your words to relive at every available moment. "Well, it was sure good to see you again Kay." My tongue is paralyzed. I have nothing to say. I have a world to tell him. "Your still as beautiful as ever." I smile and wave and turn to run a catch up with my son. "Who was that man Mom?" "An old friend." "Did I ever meet him before?" "No, I knew him before you were born." "Did you know you got meat stuck in between your front teeth?" "Where's our seats, I need to sit down." The contest was won by a large 2003 pickup owned by a local pizza delivery owner/driver who blew his tire and burned with his hazard lights blinking and his pizza sign lit up as he spun. I bet that pizza man dreams of this day every day he works.
The grand finale was a monster truck that crushed a line of cars for Jesus. It was driving by an older man who resembled a member of ZZ Top in a jumpsuit. He stood on the danced across the roofs of the cars he was about to demolish with his mike in hand, thanking the good Lord for the cars he was about to crush, I let out a gaffaw of delight. I'm not sure of the correlation between the son of God and pulverising junkers with an oversized truck, my head was back in the smoky clouds, at that point, but I'm sure it was profound.

Touch of Desire

It was his hands. His paws were the one and only thing that attracted him to me that night. Everything else about him was quite unexceptional, bordering on flat out repugnant, but I burned to have his huge mitts on me. Envy is what I felt for the glass he was holding. I wanted to be fondled in its place. How dare that vessel receive his touch when I, myself was so empty. My own little world had recently disinagrated around me, and all I could think of was the pleasure his hands could give my needy body.

I was out of my element as I watched him from my stool. An awkward alien in a bar room and stranger still to intoxicants. My own glass of wine had given me a warm liquid feeling. As I stared at him over my own glasses rim, I pictured myself doing the backstroke into his arms. Save me. Comfort me. Please make me feel something other than pain. I had lost my land legs, I realized, as my legs waved below me when I slipped off my chair as he finely motioned me over.

It could have been easier had I known what I was doing. All I needed to say was simply, "touch me", and it would have saved me some valuable caressing time. He could have cradled me in the palm of his hand, or wrap me around his little finger. It didn't matter. All I wanted was his grasp.

Never Say Never

As of yet, I have not ever:

Been stung by a bee or hornet. They like me I guess.

Climbed through the little trap door in my closet ceiling leading to my attic. I have lived in this house four years now. Don't wanna know.

Had my molars pulled.

Sang in public. I would rather give a speech naked. (All those years in chorus, faked.)

Gotten my motorcycle endorsement. Cop sees a chick on a Harley and assumes she is legal.

Made a scrap book.

Driven through a big city without uttering the phrase, "Look at all those big buildings Punky!" (Going back once again to my friend Punky who knocked himself unconscious walking downtown Winnipeg while looking up at the sky scrapers and walking into a pole.)

Had my hair done without bleating like a manic rapid hyena when the stylist washes the hairy regin around the top of my ears. (One particularly sadist hag caused me to jump out of the chair, and I would not return until I had her promise I could finish rinsing myself.)

Failed to laugh at any reference to Monty Phython.

Gone to a wedding with my husband. Not sure ours even counts. There were seven of us. Eight if you count K2, who was two weeks away from being born.

Studied all night. Don't have it in me.

Wished on a falling star. When I do see a spectacular blur, I am in too much awe to think of myself.

Fly on My Wall

"I'm going to start taking good care of myself."
"Good, I've wanted that for you for sometime", I answer not looking up.
"You know, eating better, exercising everyday."
"Yup, I'm so with you there honey."
"No more pop and junk food". By the direction of his voice, I can tell his back is towards me. I hear the rustling sound of plastic unwrapping.
"Umm yeah baby." I continue reading.
"I will either run or bike with you every morning." The sound of his clothes hitting the floor as he sheds them reaches my ears.
"That will take some dedication on your part."
"I got it in me. Oho-Woah!." Snapping sounds ensue.
"Ok if you are serious, I'll take you with me."
"Oh. My. God. Where's. My. Dog. This thing totally rocks!" I hear his feet dancing on our wood floor and look up over my book. His back still to me, his near naked buttocks moving in the rhythm of a happy dance.
"Glad to see your joy there bucko."
"Get the camera. This is too kwel."
"Ok if I can show the picture to your next girl friend."
"Deal. She will have to think it is kwel too."

An eight year old becomes a manly man when he gets his first nut cup. If playing football brings him half as much fun as his athletic support does, I have succeeded as a mom. Let the games begin.

I Dream of Weetabix

Growing up on the Minnesota- Canada border, the only television channel we received was channel 5, CBC, short for the Canadian Broadcast Company, out of Winnipeg. Looking back it was a good thing, having been brought up on bilingual Sesame Street and such shows as Chez Helene and Mr Dresshop. Mr Dresshop was the northern version of Mr Rodgers with his trade mark expression of "Oh Gahrue!" The only downfall, however, to this diverse programming, other than being only exposed to news from a totally separate country, was their commercials. The advertising, was similar to the American versions, I'm sure, but they taunted exotic and unavailable merchandise that could not be had here in the states. Bubbly Areo Chocolate bars, Arco coffee, and the one thing I lusted for most in life, at the age of eleven, Weetabix.

Weetabix cereal appeared to be wholesome, fun, and exotic all at the sametime, that combination very appealing to restless young diabetic. Although we lived very close to the border, my parents had never ventured the short distant across the river, figuring they had traveled all the way from Scandinavia, and did not need to go any further, especially a country that had even less Nordic population. I, on the other hand, was driven by my stomach and reckless abandon.

With the help of my cohort Valerie, I hatched a plan. I was not allowed to ride my bicycle on any paved roads, my family not only being wary of forien countries, but also tourists who might abscond with the likes of me. I could, with the prober amount of pleading, make it to Val's house, six miles to the west of me, via back roads. I lead my overly worried parents believe that is were I would spend the day. I made it to Valerie's house fine, but then with her in tow, doubled back, on our ten speeds, the fifteen miles to the town of Baudette and it's border bridge. Val would be my scape goat, my accomplise and my guise. Valerie was a quarter Chippewa Indian. With the heavy French and Native American population in the town of Rainy River, Canada, I figured we would be less likely to stand out as run always. Rainy River was considered a bad town. It was, after all ,on the wrong side of the tracks. All this planning for the taste of cereal.

We were both relieved and somewhat disappointed when all it took for us to get across the bridge was a quarter each. No proof of identification or alibi was needed. We were ecstatic if not tired as we peddled across the river into unknown territory. Our excitement soon pasted once we discovered the town of Rainy River to be smaller and even more desolate than what we had come to expect. As a matter of fact, the town had basically nothing, other than three bars and a gas station. The gas station did not even sell food stuffs we soon found out. We should have turned back at that point. But our quest and hunger was fueled by our strenuous ride.

Rainy River, did however, hold a restaurant on it's far outskirts edge. The Beef Hut was a relatively new building owned by Asian immigrants. Our plan b was to simply order a bowl of the much desired cereal at the cafe. Unfortunately, to our disappointment, after much confusion with our non English speaking server, we were brought hamburgers. Naturally there was no Weetabix on the menu. We barely had enough money to pay our bill, with the different currency rate and had to scrape up enough money by assaulting the penny dish by their cash register.

The disappointment of our unfulfilled hunger lessened once we realized, not only were we in a strange country when we were not supposed to be, but we now did not have the funds needed for the bridge fee to return home. As much as we wanted to throw down our bikes and blubber like the nieve little school girls we were, Val and I could not create a seen and be discovered in our ruse.

The adrenaline it took for the two of us to push our bikes along the dizzyingly high railroad tracks across the river and back into the states, got us most of the way back home. Val's mom, a tuperware dealer returning home from delivering plastics, spotted us on the side of the road, doubled over with leg cramps. We caught hell for being on the highway. We let our parents believe we were on our way to my house. The whole trip into Canada was never brought up.

I have since been back into Canada many times since that first time. I had just plain forgot about Weetabix.

I was in my local grocery store the other day, doing a fast power shop. I cut through the health foods isle because it always has less congestion while on my way to the bakery department. Midpoint in the isle, out of the corner of my eye, at ankle level, I glimpse a yellow and blue blur of a box, with a W in it's title. Yes I was going that fast. I grab the handle of my cart and screech to a halt, causing my pretzel rods to to slide off the top of my loaded cart (weight in motion, resistance-force in effect). "Mom!", yips Y2 in startled protest as he picks up the broken snacks, and turns to look at where I have kneeled down on the floor in front of the organic foods.

I could not believe that they had my elusive cereal in my very own grocery store. How long had it been here? Was it the real deal or just a bad watered down version like so many American made copies of an original? There was only one box on the shelf. I hugged that box tightly to my chest all through the check out line and home.

As I ate the entire box of nectar like weatyness, I could feel my leg muscles convulse with joy. An aura of adrenaline warmth filled my satiated body. The food was somewhat bland in my mouth, but the flavor of the memories were exquisite. What tasted so good to me now, would have only been a disapointment at the age of eleven. Yes, it was worth the trip. Now.

Such A Lovely Waste

He died in a single car crash. I just got the news. But I am done grieving Scott already. It was a process I started long ago. He taught me what love was. Not that he showed me any. He made it clear to me what it was not.

Scott was as handsome and charming as they come. And twice as evil. Son of the local sheriff, he was raised in a strict catholic family. He taught me how to hot knife hash in the front seat of a stolden car when I was fifteen. His girlfriend was cheering at the basket ball game at the time. He was older, richer, slick as a snake. My parents thought I was safe with him. I was never in more danger. I learned to always keep him at a long arms length.

I discovered later, was his older brother, the dealer, who's stash we had used. The car belonged to parish father who lived across the street from Scott. That was back when Scott was doing small time crime. After his girlfriend became pregnant and was sent off to the cities, Scott cut a deal with his dad and left town in the dark of night to avoid prosecution for an area crime spree. He spent a year working on a fishing boat in Alaska. Excitement followed him, mostly in the form of board young teenagers. He moved into my apartment for a short time in collage, right before we were evicted.

I heard he married a local girl. She would make the three hour drive every weekend with his mother to visit him in the state penitentiary. She had to love him. She was heart broken when he left her, apon his release, for their eighteen year old babysitter.

So many opportunities in his life time wasted. Or did he just grab every one he seen and let the rest of us learn from his painful mistakes. I only know he did leave many a beautiful corpse.

Two Truths And A Lie

Once, sometime ago, during an emergency visit to the E.R. in Crookston, Minnesota, for dehydration due to hyper emisis, the Dr., doing my work up, asked if I was experiencing any abdominal pain. I admited that yes, I had some, but had not noticed it previously, so the doctor probed my lower belly with his hands. Seeing me wince as he did so, and wanting to explore futher, the examining doctor pulled up my exam gown to find the cause of my belly ache. I had put my panties on sideways. One of the little leg holes was around my waist, causing my discomfort. I could hear the staff laughing all the way down the hall after that damn Dr. shared this information with his staff. Never did find out what caused my nausea.

When I was six, I was in the back seat of my parents old Buick station wagon, which my father named Dino, on account of it resembled the dinosaur from the Flintstones, during a Sunday afternoon drive. Being board beyond belief, with no radio or siblings along for entertainment, I wanted to see what would happen, if I were to open the door. It was easy for me to do so, as we were traveling at a very slow speed. As I watched the tall grass of the country ditches move past, I knew I would be safe if I just "stepped" out. I did, but rolled into the ditch at a much faster speed than I had imagined. I was ok, only a little befuddled. Unluckily for my parents though, the town cop was behind us. His lights alerted my folks to my mishalp. When the kind officer asked me what had happened, I answered, trying not to get myself into trouble, "My parents threw me outta the car, like an old duck." No citations were involved as that was way before the seatbelt ordinances.

When we moved into our first house, my fridge was a horrible olive green eyesore, circa 1970, complete with Strawberry Shortcake stickers that would not come off. When I asked my hubby for a new appliance, he told me, "No it is a beautiful running machine." I hated that ugly beast so much, I sanded it down, while hubby was at work in Green Bay, Wisconsin . I then went to the Harley store and picked up the same teal blue paint as my bike. I "customized" my fridge complete with replacing the chrome on it's handlem, and neon orange detailing along with a large Harley logo sticker complete with flames, across the freezer door. Hubby hated it, and upon coming home, offered to buy me a new appliance immediately. I would not let him do so, as in my mind I did then have a truly beautiful machine. I didn't let him replace it two years later either when it would give you a shock if you touched the metal handle while standing on a freshly washed floor. Three years later, we did get a new one after it quite running all together. (The cord had been cut.)

Two truths and a lie is a game geisha ladies would play with their courtesans back at the turn of the century. Everyone was to tell two true stories and one make up one. Wanna play?

All Ilya Kuryakin

Mission: Headache Run Lock Down

Destination: Local area not yet discovered

Objective: Secure all ice cream source samples and points of possible adventure

Agents: Munkay, K1, K2, The Jakes, sometimes Eli


First Destination: Artsy/Craftsy/Animal store:

Did not linger long at this destination. Was reprimanded for blowing the shop's wooden loon whistle that was available for sale. Agent K1, in self defense, stared right at the counter monkey and let fly his own loon impersonation, having mastered the technique during a camping mission years before. His call did not attract a loon from the inside of the store, but the boys fifth grade teacher from the local elementary. Almost aborted mission right there due to school room fash backs. Ice cream cones were inhaled in parking lot before reaching the jeep. Discovered leaning forehead against hot metal exterior of vehicle helps brain freeze.

Second Destination: Gemoligists art studio

Infiltrated the little store as quickly as possible and encountered the proprietor, who goes by the name Steven, and was disguised as mid fifties man of questionable sexuality. All in black and bedecked and bedazzled in precious gems and jewelry, it was my youngest son, K2 that won the mans alliance with his mood ring. After an hour an a half of interigation, we had learned more information than we thought possible about minerals, fossils and rocks. I took away with me one gorgeous pair of jade and silver earrings, a fosilized sharks tooth and five free crystals plus a good friend, which was acquired buy K1's final question, "But which rock is YOUR favorite?"

Fourth Destination: Hidden Dentists Studio Under the Guise of Ice Cream Store.

We cracked this case when we realized the malt machine sounded like a dentists drill and our drinks caused us a sleepy and calm sensation. Also Eli pointed out Dr. Frozen Dairy's white coat should have been an apron. I may have lost all track of time while there, and one of the Jakes claims the filling in his back molar hurt afterwards.

Third Destination: Local Artists Water Color Studio Of Bad Landscapes And Clothes Line Senery:

We quickly besieged the owner right away with our number and youth. Was told she catered to only serious art patrons as we filled her shop. K2, (who had pained an oil on canvas of Vincent Van Gough's, "Stary Night" for his art and academic school fair) replied with the proper response, "Thats ok, we only like serious art", upon our speedy get away.

Fourth Destination: Malt Shop

Secured the area promply and numerous samples were seized and consumed. We were smart and left our vehicle 8 blocks away at the nearest parking lot as too throw any possible trackers off our trail. Very effective as we could not find our way back.

Fifth Destination: Joseph Wolf Historic Cave and Brewery

No better environment for a group of pre-adolescent males. I have indeed trained them well as no matter how art I tried, I was unable to lose a single one of them in the maze of dark cold underground tunnels. High point of the tour: hearing the boys chant, "chug chug chug chug", in unison while exploring off the beaten path. *Mothers disclaimer- I do not nor will I ever encourage any irresponsible drinking behavior, especially from under age minors, but the sight of a group of boys pretending to be a beer train in an old cave brewery was just funny.*

Conclusion: Local area is full of untapped thrill a minute resources, local culture and tasty frozen concoctions. Mission accomplished.

Conversations With Harlan

Pick axe to my tongue
lunch ladies opposing me
rosterfarian last resort
not so crazy
more like short

Take your drugs Harlan
pop those pills
prescription skitzo
not weak to medicate
do it do it
no crowbait
(caw- caw)

Try to change things
head into a wall
curled under my desk
fetal position flow
screaming foodgasim
whoa

Take your drugs Harlan
pop your pills
prescription skitzo
do it do it
no crowbait
(caw-caw)

In the same foxhole
worried through
another sleepless night flight
I'm just saying
this is my playground

chorus

NASA's extended power
forensic suspect
turkey bites
hits the spot search
I may be wrong
but I think I think right.

chorus


Harlan is the night manager who resembles Bill Murry in Caddyshack and has pressure issues. Rather handsome in a tinfoil hat.

Unfinished Posts

All Ilya Kurakin
Elena's Thooth Brush Holder
Advise Never Taken
No, I'm Romona
An Alternitive Exoeriance
Today the First Day of Spring
One Day on the Way to the Morge
Saving Grace
This Year
The Other Stone
He Says, She Says...Nothing
Trapped
Wednesday Night
Fights Like a Girl
Higher Asperations
A Rose By Any Other Name
Sweet Emotion
In Other News

There now I must finish at least one. As soon as I find some time.

Semi Dairy Retirement

I wasn't using them anymore so I packed them away. Tucked out of sight and out of mind. Didn't even figure they were missed, being more trouble than good. But today I brought them out for a viewing. How I had forgotten the power cleavage holds? Faces may launch a thousand ships, but boobies will move mountains. By earthquakes.

When my boys were of a certain age, where my girls became a distraction to their friends, out came the jogging bra's and baggy sweatshirts. I said goodbye to my showy femininity. On this hot summer day, I broke them out anyway. I said hello shorty tank top. Has been a long time since they have seen the sun. My Hubby took one look at me and asked if it was his birthday.

The lovely young gentleman, at the department store jumped over the counter to offer me help today. When I told him I was merely browsing, not sure if I wanted a DVD for my kids, he walked me over to the children section, to help me make my selection. I have walked past the same man, on my way to pick up my prescriptions for three years now and he has never so much as look me in the eye. Not that he did today either.

On my next stop, work, I walked in, not in my usual a sexual uniform, and not wearing my hair back in a severe bun, and stood looking over the upcoming shedual. My district supervisor, who has yet to remember my first name, the man who sees me almost every other day, today shook my hand and introduced himself. At least to my chest. Strange men whom I have never noticed before, appeared out of the wood work. My assistant chef asked me if I knew how blue my eyes are. I have stared into his face for the past three months. I hardly had to lift a finger today.

The kid at the grocery store bagged my food and carried out to my jeep for me. It was a bag your own store.

How could I forget the power of breasts? I did receive disapproving looks today only from other women. My top was not that low, infact it would be considered modest to some. Is it a true that woman do indeed dress for other women's approval? I do want to be admired for my skills and brains above all else. All else will (mostly) go back in the closet. I do have a garage appointment for my jeep this week.

Bed Side Manor

Having been thrown the question, "What is on your bedside table?", by Professor Batty, author of Flippism Is The Key, http://flippistarchives.blogspot.com/, I must first clarify that indeed, I have no bed side table. Reason being, after the fire that demolished my home, I was forced into designing and decorating our new home from the ground up, in three months. I am now taking my own sweet time in picking out my bedroom furniture. And it is my excuse to not attaching and committing to solid objects. That does not stop me from being a voracious reader however, so I do have piles apon piles of reading material around my bed. It is my common practice to be reading at least three books at any one time. I am however horrible at picking out books and finishing them,in a timly manor, unless it is just too good to put down. I cannot remember titles or authors either, unless it is a cookbook. Those I memorize. Growing up in the border boonies, I read every available book in the school and town library's, bookmobile and even ordered books throughout the mail- order library. I was only allowed to order three books at a time but I figured out, if I timed it correctly, with my next shipment of books coming in three postal days, and I used booth my sisters names when filling out the order card, I could get fresh books almost every day. I read my sisters collage books when she brought them home at end of term. I read until my eyes were too blurry to see the words. These are what's piled up next to me now,

The Patron Saint of Liars, by Ann Patchett. I'm currently on page 68, it is marked by tears.
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, by J.K. Rowling. Page 27 is marked with K2's summer baseball shedual.
The Bible ,Life Application Study Guide, by 66 different authors. Maybe less as some of the men who wrote it wrote more than one chapter or book. The Song of Psalms written by by David before he became king is marked by a note book slip of paper with I Heart U Mom written on it.
Blue Shoe by Anne Lamott. Page 108 is marked by a Minneapolis Art museum map.
A Cossetta Event Menu. There is a splotch of armaretto gellato on the back cover.
Hazelden A Spiritual Odyssey by Damian McElrath, Ph.D. Never been cracked.
Savoring France by Williams-Sonoma. A Half Price Books sales receipt marks "Moules Farcies" on page 187.
The Life of Pi by Yann Martel.That booked was strange and disturbing. Read it in one day.
Giants in the Earth by O.E. Rolvaag Page 427 is marked by my unfinished poem, "Cowboy Roy, My Mellon Eating Joy."
Barefoot Contessa Parties by Ina Gardner. Drool Marks Every page.
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Page 642 is marked with a grocery list that reads, milk, catfood, coffee beans, rosemary. On the back of the list my Hubbys handwriting says, "Get your nose out of this Commi book and go make me some money woman!" Page 819 has a slip of paper with his hand writing that says," NOW!"
Jokes To Go, A collaboration of one liners by Judy Brown. Funniest joke by Rodney Dangerfield, "I met my wife in a bar. What a surprise; I thought she was at home with the kids."
Servsafe Haccap 2005 FDA Food code essentials book by the National American Health Department. Favorite food borne illness; Anisakis simplex, caused by low grade improperly cooked sea food. The reason I so like it is it's symptoms are very obvious. Severe abdominal pain, cramping, vomiting, nausea, tingling or tickling sensation in throat, vomiting or coughing up worms.
Poems by E. E. Cummings. Favorite line, "The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches."
Catalogs from Room and Board and Alto Avartti, Penzey Spice, Trek, Victoria Secrets, and North County Skijourney, Art suppliers Warehouse.
Wintergeen Oil
A paddle hair brush.
My wrist brace.
a bowl of pistachio nuts with one green plastic army man with rifle raised over his head

Under my bed, behind hidden behind the big box from Ingalbretsens and the dust bunnies;
One half eaten five pound box Gadiva Chocolates left over from Christmas
The video Tape, "How to Belly Dance". (I tried it once and was laughed at by my boys.)
That joke gift from hubbies co-workers I enjoy so much.
A slingshot.
Blow Him Away by Marcy Michaels. Closest thing to a self help book I have ever bought and the reason for the sling shot.
The Complete Illustrated Kama Sutra edited by Lance Dane. Inscription in the front cover reads:"Happy Valentines 2003 to the best lover in all the world, Jullio my sizzling Meat Wad."

Actually Spoken To Me At The Rehab

"What's that? Carrots and broccoli mixed with cauliflower? Can I just have the carrots with just a little cauliflower. Maybe a two to one ratio. If you could pick them out for me with a smaller spoon. No broccoli. Don't let any touch my plate. No start again. That almost looks green."

"My son? Oh he is now ummm, ugh, nineteen. Maybe. But I placed him in a home when he was, uh, fourteen. He's got A.D.D. and I don't know what else. Stupid home messed him right up."

"Can you run my plate through the dishwasher for me? I only eat off my plate. That will sanitize and kill all the germs, right? Don't let anyone else eat off it."

"Gay Break, what is that? Never heard of it. Gay break? GAY BREAK? Oh, D. A. Y. Break. The day break program. Sorry I said gay break Munkay. Are you Munkay? How do I say your name? Munkbe? Mugbe? Oh M.U.N.K.A. Y."

"Asper-grass. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. Asper- grass. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. Oh ,an I love calling asparagus Asper-grass! Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."

"I stepped on the cord of vacuum this morning. No it wasn't plugged in. But it sure upset my system. I've been off all day."

"If you want, and get me a pattern, I'll sew you a real nice dress. If my wife lets me use her machine. Then you will smile more."

"No, I need to start my day with only protein. Everything else ferments in my belly and slows me down."

"I got diabetes after I lost my leg when when I was driving drunk. Now I am really a messed up sick bastard."

"I can monitor everything from my room here. Never have to set foot outside my door."

"suicide is my most viable option now. I just enjoy torturing myself."

"I love ham. Where does it come from?"

And these were with the councilors, not the patients.

Semaphore Invasion

They started appearing shortly after the snow left. Popping up unannounced out of no where. The first one caught me off guard and threw me by surprise, it really did. The green light at the traffic semaphore production factory must be logging in the overtime.

I know the roads of my community like the back of my own hand. There I was in my jeep, mind elsewhere, as I drove on auto pilot, humming along with my music, talking with my kids, and eating fast food when the first new stop sign emerged with its regal authority. Always being one to take direction well, I put my foot on my brake, french fry midway to my mouth, and asked the redundant question, "What's that?" "Mom", my youngest kid answers from the back seat, "that's a stop sign. See, S.T.O.P.", patiently as if it was I who were the child. I continued to sit motionless and marvel at this envision of my roadway until the honk of the a horn from the cars lining up behind me, reminded me that stopping is only the first part of the stop and then go sequence the sign commands.

Seams as this was the first sign of a herd that were to follow. They are now popping up every where like wild beasts infringing on my ability to speed. And they are bringing with them their tougher big brother, the traffic light.

I was good with the new blinking warning light over the pedestrian walkway in front of my children's school, but it should have stopped there. They are breeding and appearing everywhere. Next street over, it is a "Slow Children" sign. The same families have lived on that road since we moved in here, eighteen years ago. Did it take them until now to realize they had ball chasers in the vicinity? The kids are of legal age now.

I was twenty minutes late for work today because I had to wait for the light at the end of my driveway to turn green. During the night, a light was put up outside my bathroom door. I peed my pants waiting for the right of way.

I would rant more on the intrusion of my motional advancement, but I want to beat the traffic. I have discovered if I make a series of right hand turns, (legal in this state at a red light,) through my children rooms and their bathroom, instead of waiting to attempt a left turn at the top of the stairs, I avoid most of the rush hour dinner traffic leading into the kitchen.

You Tell Me

Is it wrong of me,

To send a copy of my ode to our gardener, "Julio the Meat Wad" to my hubby? Especially when we have no Gardner?

To do exaggerated impersonations of co-workers when they are right in front of me?

To continue to tell my children stories of being raised by wolves on the Canadian border even after my sister busted me and told them the truth. Or did she?

To have the check out clerk at the grocery store weight my bananas then break off two of the bananas and weight them again to make up for the ones I ate in the store?

To not make a single appointment before eleven a.m. ever because I can't be bothered to be up and dressed by that time?

To turn down all invitations to pot-luck gatherings because if I cook one more stinking thing my hands will form permanent fists?

To call my cat Chub-Chub or Mongo Palousa but become intensely offended when my kids try to jiggle my bingo-wings? (Bingo wings- the loose skin that hangs on under arms of elderly ladies- NOT me)

Not answer the phone or door, even when I am home, just because I don't feel like it. (This drives some of my friends nuts. If I have done it to you, too bad. Do not take it personally.)

To eat salad for breakfast and cereal before bed?

T head to the beach instead of the lawnmower when it is hot and my grass is longer than everyone in the neiborhoods put together?

To sing Robert Palmers "Simply Irresistible" loudly in front of hubby when ever carrying shopping bags into the house? ("She's so fine, there's no telling where the money went...Sing with me honey..")

To not want to be called Mom be my husband. I hate that. I am not his mom. He may instead refer to me as Hot Momma. My kids can even call me something other than mom. I call them by their given names not just the title, son.

To tell the comedian turned actor, the one who was once married to that female comedian turn talk show hostess nutcase, "You have nice skin?", and not recognize him?

To do the Mel Brooks line in blazing Saddles, "Work, work work, work. We gotta protect our phony baloney jobs gentlemen", cross eyed on my way out the door every day?

To forgo sending my kids to camp in lew of packing them off to "Flappy Aunty's Learnatorium and Day Spa Colatic" for the summer?

To plan our annual pilgrimage across the state line to buy the good, illegal, blow all digits to smithereens, explosives and include my innocent young children against the chagrin of my boy scout badge wearing, never break a rule, ex special agent military cop in the service, hubby?

To threaten Hubby not to let him set off a single sparkler if he does not let me use his truck as my fire cracker toting mule?

Entertain myself with useless lists?

Not a Janitor, a Kayak Brother

"It's a beautiful day out, why aren't you playing Nintendo?"

I teased my kids with this to much this summer, as they have spent a vast amount of time in front if the brain sucking box. Monday, on my day off, I decided to surprise them.

"Hey we are out of groceries. We are out of everything. You guys must go with me to haul it all in for me." The response I received was far below lackadaisical. I even convinced my sister into going with us. We all piled into her van and headed into town. The only one excited in the vehicle was me. "How about we pick up K1's early birthday present while we are at it?" I could see and hear the wheels spinning in their little heads when I convinced them into pulling into the Gander Mountain parking lot.

"What are we here for mom?" I played dumb to their questioning. Maybe we will pick up Sis's birthday gift also while we are here. My sister's birthday and my son's are one day apart. I still wouldn't answer their questioning but marched us right into the boating department. They were all in shock and awe when I told them I was getting them all a kayak.

"But first I need to buy a special carrier and have a mechanic attach it on my van's roof to hold three kayaks", my sis protested, "that's what I was told at all the other sporting goods places. They will not secure them on because of the liability involved." That little snafu only momentarily dampened our buzz. I knew I could not afford the extra costs of the carrier and garage time but I told K1 to go find us some customer service help.

The older gentleman my son returned with in tow was Ron. Ron soon became our fast kayaking brother as he explained to use what would be best for us, and gave was several valuable pointers with out trying to upsale us. It was easy to tell this man loved the sport. He gave us all sorts of free advice and tolds us we did not need a fancy carrier and even showed us the straps that would hold the boats on, for a lot less money and hastle. When he offered to teach us the proper way to portage our new vessels, we all but dog piled on top of him in gratitude. "Wait", Ron said, "let me get you a sales person. "

Let me get you a sales person.

It wasn't until after Ron had demonstrated how to get all three boats safely on the top of the van, and he send me back into the store to get a refund on the unneeded straps that he shook our hands and we drove off.

"K1, how did you manage to find such a great guy to help us out?" , I asked.

"Easy mom, he was cleaning the floor."

'Roid Boy

" Good evening, Rip Torn, you neckless wonder, imagine you being the first person I see when I open the dining room for dinner. No-no, just because there are linen table cloths on the tables and you drink your protein shakes from crystal goblets in here, think nothing of wearing only wife beaters and gym shorts. I would hate to miss the chance to admire your definition as you pose and streach for my benefit. Oh yeah I refilled the vat of cottage cheese on the salad bar for you, along with the eggs and the turkey. Did I see you on the jogging trails earlier? No, you only do the gym? The thought of you trying to bounce along on your tip toes because your over devolved calf muscles won't allow you to run in a natural stide humors me greatly. Yeah the entree choices tonight are chicken boursorn and citrus grilled veal chops. I will not ask, I know, two of each. But I am going to load your plate with vegetables, weather you want them or not. Skurvy is ugly. Don't look at me like a barbarian, they are good for you. No- you don't intimidate me in the slightest. I'm not here to hold your hand- that is your counselors job. I ain't gonna listen to you growl then whimper- that is for your support group. I am here to feed your nutrient starved body. Six percent body fat you say? Not any more there buddy. That is how much butter I have been injecting by syringe into each and every piece of meat you consume. So what, he is only my boss. His telling me not to tease and mouth off is only redundant. Do some reps with the chair somewhere else. No doubt you really can pick up the entire desert bar. Don't. It's painfully obvious why you are here. There are skinny little geeks being beat up right now for lack of the steroids you use. I bet even their mamma's could take you. See you tomorrow. Make sure you wipe your sweat off the machines for me will ya?"

And Your Mama Can Hold The Wrench

hot as the exploding asphalt
that combusts the road in our vicinity
stranded in a steaming butimus sea
road rage boils up inside of me
stuck in traffic, no stinking way out
windows wide open
tongue hanging out
bottling the urge to climb on my jeep roof
and shout
"Damn you incompetent soon to be dead mechanic
curse your greasy hide to garage hell
were all the tools are metric
and you cannot escape
by an emissions suicide!"

*dedicated to Riv and her ability to attract the shirtless hotties to offer assistance

Like a Man

I used him like a man, I did. It didn't take any planning. Not a spec. And even less thought. Zero emotions. It turned him inside out.

I showed up without announcement. No explanations or excuses. Plesentarys were few. It was clear why I was there and what I wanted. Foreplay was minimally on the point of non existent. I simply moved the his keyboard and sat myself down in front of him. If I could have just unzipped my fly and whipped myself out, I would have. Instead I hitched up my dress and grabbed his head.

Shelfishness dictated in my want. Being the center of the universe and nothing mattered but my orgasm. With his curls wrapped around my fingers he had no choice but to please me. Oblivion was thinly disguised as desire.

I pretended not to see the confusion or hopefully expectation on his wet face when I was done. I simply smoothed my skirt and left him hanging. No apology crossed my lips, but an offhand thanks and a vague promise of a call on my way out his doors during my hasty exit.

He called my cell on the long way home. I never answered. There were three instead messages waiting for me from him on my computer and the phone was ringing as I walked in the door.

"Are you alright?" "You have me so worried?" "Please talk to me."

"Please, have you seen Me? I am so much better than alright."

Fence Sitter

List of things I do not know weather I like or not.


Motorcycle drivers wearing neon hazard vests. Is that a good safe idea or just dorky as hell?

San Francisco. Beautiful heritage rich city or dump of uberstrange socially challenged people?

Mondays. Fresh start to a new week or the signal for me to turn off my brain for the next five days?

California rolls. Again a nice "safe" idea but, fake is fake?

Justin Timberlake. He certianly is not heart throb he is known for but the boy can play and dance.

Cross country skiing. Yes good exercise, but the only real time I enjoy it is when I am going down hill.

Communism. I so like that idea, I wish everyone but me would adopt it.

Lapdogs. Cute and affectionate, but do I really want to be a lapdog woman?

Tag body spray. The commercials crack me up but now everyone and their brother is wearing the stuff.

Nymphomaniacs. Maybe I just envy their time. Or priority.

The French. Are they rude, course and self preserving or just less shameful about being so?

Men. I'd love to have four or five but where would I put all those bodies when I am done with them?

Charity marathons. Yes they are good causes but couldn't they make more money if people didn't invest so much time and money in training for them and just give their own money?

Godiva Chocolate liquor. That stuff is so sweet it hurts.

Unshaved body hair on a woman. Ok, I think that is gross as hell but the lazy me really wants to wrap her mind around that one.

Ok well I have many more but I can't decide if they are good enought to write here or not.

Memories

I am really good at locking them away safely. Then they cause me no bother. The ugly ones I do not miss. Once and awhile one sneaks out and demands validation but I try to hurry their dark selves back in. It is when the soft gentle ones slip out and catch me unaware, I am sad.

First Day of Summer Vacation

We just bought and whatched the movie "Be Cool". Not only was the Rock in it but so was Areosmith. Why didn't I know this? Althought the ending was very predictable, it was worth it to see the Rock poke fun of his limited acting ability and dance in a dress. Steven Tyler's references to selling out was worth the looks I got in the store when I picked up the movie, squeeled and began rubbing it over my body. Yeah, this was an omen this summer is going to be good.

apple cider

i belong down a well
hit me with a shovel
baby i ain't nuttin but trouble
gonna break that bubble
make you regret the entire year you met me
decent light of day
shouldn't touch me
(...can't leave well enough alone)

but you want too
yeah
yeah
you want too
forbidden scandal
mmm you want too
this rotten apple bites

the one your mama
never told you bout
wouldn't so much
as give me a shout
that sorry bitch
is cryin now
i stole her man
and used him up
(...through him away, like an old paper cup...)

but you want too
yeah
yeah
you want too
forbidden scandal
mmm you want too
this rotten apple bites

from the wrong side of the tracks
the bad part of town
(you) don't wanta be caught
in my fucked up bed
when the the sun goes down
need to see with you own eyes
the crazy shit
that 'll twist you around
(..witch way to the equator?..)

refrain

your loudest screams of pain
only you will hear
when you can not have me near
sell your soul
for another piece of me
sell your mothers
to forget all thoughts of me
you ain't got a hope
devils all ready mine
(...scream to yourself, i feed from your pain...)

but you want too
yeah
yeah
you want too
forbidden desire
mmm you want too
this rotten apple bites

Eah, I Don't Need it Anyway

So I am now a partial digit closer to primate status. It's not going to hinder my piano playing, something that I have no intentions of doing, or my pathetic two finger typing either, thank you. My hitch-hiking finesse will always be considered edgy, so what the hell. Opposable thumbs, skomosable thumbs.

My job has me working over in my own satilight kitchen. I cook for the few,the select, the mucky mucks. The alumni who are invited back so the company can solicit contributions, eat in my dining room, as do a few relapsers, or follow up seminar attendees. Some of the easily reconized guests also eat there, as not to draw unwanted attention from fellow abusers. I have been trained to treat these people like everyone else. Everyone who has been born with a silver spoon in their mouths that is. These patients stay anywhere from four days to a month. I see them for lunch and dinner. We become close, only I am with them for more meals than most familys spend together now a days. Including my own. I know who is the vegetarian that secretly sneaks the lard filled donuts, who is on the high protein diet and who likes sweet onions on everything. I get lots of hugs goodbye on Saturday nights, before they fly away, back to their real lives, Sunday morning.

Last week I was finishing up after dinner and trying to close the place for the night. As I was shutting everything down and putting everything away, the large industrial sized plastic wrap roll stuck it's self together so I lost the clear end on twenty four inch dispenser. Being the handy girl I am, and wanting to get out of there bad, I whipped out my trusty razor thin pointy tipped fillet knife to pry the first couple layers apart and create a new edge. Suddenly, with out warning, the swinging door from the dining room bursts open and Jerome C, also known only by me as Coconut Dome Jerome, due to his sparsely covered round old brown head, yells, "Hey! Sister Love! Got any paper cups in here?" I was standing with my back to him, so Jerome had not seen the glint of the blade as it smoothly sliced through the difficult plastic and the tip of my thumb. "Umm let me check the back room", I answered heading out the back door grabbing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser on my way, as I head for the store room numb with shock. My hand does not really hurt bad but there is much blood pouring from it. I dare not look closely at it, scared to open the toweling to have what ever I just severed, fall on the floor, so instead I search for the first aid kit. I pull the kit off a high shelf and cross the hall to stick my head into the back kitchen door where Jerome is still waiting for his dang cup. "Sorry Jerome, I got nothing", I tell him and he kindly leaves to allow me to bleed to death in private. I am nothing but a good bleeder, being on the meds I am on. I once sliced my finger taking my food processor blade out of my dishwasher and spent the rest of the day on the floor, napping in front of my kitchen counter, in my own warm mess. I know disinfectent is my friend so I open the swabs as best I can with one hand and my teeth and instantly saturate the already damp swab with blood. I then bound mythumb with gaze and put on a plastic glove. I am calm as I walk across the floor, dripping blood as I go, and phone the main kitchen. "Basil? (My managers real name is Brian but he reminds me of Basil Faulty, the bumbling inn keeper from the British comedy Faulty Towers.) I cut myself here" "Where?", he askes. "The satilight kitchen", I answer stupidly. "No where did you cut yourself?" "My thumb." "You need help?" Basil askes me. No I need a new finger, But I still do not feel pain so I answer, with much bravado, "No, it is just going to take me longer to clean up." "OK, I will fill out an accident report for you when you come in tomorrow to sign." "Ok, thanks." I hang up and realize my glove is already filled with blood. I change my glove and grab my jeep keys and head over to Basil's office.

"Basil can you bandage my finger so it will stop bleeding?", I ask as I walk into his office, "I can't do it tight enough one handed to hit the pressure point", as I hold up my hand and start to remove the new glove filled hand. "STOP! STOP! The chicken livered Basil yells, not wanting to be witness to any gore, I am taking to straight to the nurses station."

The poor nurses there only see people battling skin bugs and shakes. They wrapped my thumb up big as a watermelon and sent me into the emergency hospital in town. I bleed through the two inches of gauze on my way in. Damn Basil let me drive myself too. Being polite, I waved the nice elderly gentleman in who was having chest pains in before me. I had no pain. So as not to scare anyone, I sat and waited with my hand above my heart, tucked out of sight behind my ear against my neck. My white chef's uniform is now permently stained down the back. With a full moon the E.R. was busy.

The only thing that hurts now is my pride. Plastic wrap got the best of me. I wonder if my thumb tip will become my phantom appendage, and I will go about doing the things I did before I "lost" it like some amputees. I had heard of a lady who would roll out of bed in the morning and fall, after having her legs removed, because she momentarily forgot there were gone. If you do happen to catch me standing doing nothing with a blank look on my face, don't worry. In my mind, I still have that one thumb up my ass.

...and now this...

Change is good, it really is. Although I like it much better when I instigate it rather than be forced into it. My poor Hubby, however, creature of habit that he is, is easily blown away by any deviant in his routine. It was nine years ago that I switched the utensil drawer and the silverware drawer around, they were side by side, and I hear about it to this day. Every time he takes one of the the prescription medications he is on, that would be twice a day, I hear bout how wrong Target pharmacy was to switch over to their new colored bottles. So has our pharmacist. And Target has received many e-mail also. I now just automatically switch his pills over to the old uncolored bottles before I give him his refills just so I don't have to listen to it anymore.

Other than this blog, here Are some of the things I am personaly going to try to change.

When I run up the stairs in the morning, I will no longer do the "Rocky" victory dance-jump with my fists held high up in the air. It's only thirteen steps.

When I am alone in the elevator at work, I no longer will sing Aerosmiths "Love in an elevator". Thank you Human Resource department for letting me know the elevator is not sound proof.

I will stop tilting my head to one side while I brush my hair just to see how much longer my hair will be in three months.

I will cut back on re-naming everyone I know. No more working with Basil Faulty, Olive Your Pies and Jackie Tran. I will not live by Sam Hill or Dawain the Tub. I will adress Mr. Rodgers at the grocery store as Jon and the counter monkey at the convience store will now be only known as Foopah Mama, er, I mean Liz.

I will eat the entire damn pint of Hagen Daas and not leave the last spoonful in the bottom trying to make myself look less like a pig.

I will no longer tell my husband, "You are so much calmer than our pool boy", after sex.

I will no longer make up imaginary conversations for postal workers when I spot one delivering mail. "Here you go, proper Miss Spinster Church Lady, here's this months issue of Pantsless Cowboy Mangravy Monthly", and "You call that a dog? Try and bite me will ya, I can fit all of you and your little cat buddy in my mouth", are now things of the past.

No more full volume drum solo's to Fleetwood Mac's Tusk on my steering wheel as I am attempting a left hand turn.

I will try not to pull up my shirt and stand sideways in front of my mirror to fool myself into thinking my stomach is flat.

I will stop telling the kids strories of being raised by wolves. Only because my sister told them the truth when they asked her for more stories.

I will stop petting the picture of The Rock that hangs on my fridge door and saying, "Good morning baby", in front of my Hubby.

I will stop licking the rim of every glass before I take a drink to aviod leaving my lipstick on it. I'm just gonna drink straight out of the bottle.

I will work on my cupboard door obsession. Even if every square inch of my kitchen is spotless, I will not fixate on open cupboard doors. They are my pet peeve. Oh hell, who am I fooling. I will always scream like a maniac when you leave them open. I just won't feel guilty about it.

I will contine to talk to my pets, I just won't wait for a responce.

I will stop pretending like I have famous and creative boyfriends. Like David Bowie once told me-

I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

Thank you for writting me that song David.

Epic Know Not

I don't know were I have been the past twenty five years or so, I really don't. How I have managed to grow up and never see a Star Wars film, or Lord of the Rings movie, or is beyond most people. Maybe I've just been busy.

I knew new sequels of both films were coming out a while back, so when I took my kids in to see The Ring Two, I was expecting a little light saber or hobbit action. As were were sitting in the local theater, settled in nicely with a vat of popcorn, the opening sceen of the story include a teenager and a whole lot of blood. "This ain't right", I say out loud, loud enough for my oldest son who was sitting a couple rows ahead of me to hear. I look around confused and no one else in the darkened theather is upset at what has to be a mistake. Ok, maybe I am just in the wrong showing room I deduct. I get up and leave the room to check the sign over the door. It does indeed read The Ring Two, but in smaller letters, "The evil returns". Damn, this is a horror flick. Squeamish chicken that I am, I march right back in to get my kids out of there. They would not budge. For the next two hours I sat with my eyes covered screaming like a little girl until K1 told me to shut up, I was embaressing him, and K2 sat on my lap to block the screen from view. Sorry Mr. movie theater manager, pee happens. Maybe vinyl seat covers when showing scary flicks eh?

Saturday we went to see The return of the Sith. I knew it was the right movie before it started by the quantity of geeks in costume. I know I once again irritated fellow movie goers by this time asking my kids about the plot line. "Who's father? Real or robot?" But it was not a waste of time. I actually enjoyed myself.

I recently finished reading the boys, JRR Tolkien's "The Hobbit", and we seen the play at The Institute of Art. I even watched twenty minutes of our Lord of the Rings DVD and might be able to sit through it in it's entirety. Maybe, just maybe, at this ripe old age I will turn into a sci-fi fanatic. But I doubt I will ever cross over to that dark side anytime soon.

One Red, One Blue

I had four dresser drawers on my half of the dresser, as I was growing up. Top drawer was for my tops. Next drawer was jeans. My treasure drawer full of books, chockeys and lint followed. And farthest from the top was my underwear door. Not that I needed an entire door for my panties, I only owned two pair. That left only one pair to occupy my underwear door at any given time.

During my fifth and six grade years, the lumbar mill where my father worked was on strike. Dad was the foreman and could of gotten another job elsewhere. He chose not to, he thought had to remain loyal for his "boys." Boys is what he called his crew that had wanted the strike for higher wages and was mostly made up of younger men without family. Men with less obligations who could go longer without a paycheck. My mother, being a professional housewife, generated no income either. Not that we had ever been affluent, we learned to make do with even less. My family was fortunate that we had no house payment. We heated our home with wood and our meals revolved around venison and Moms garden. It was an easier time for me than my sister who was already in highschool. I could use her hand me downs. Just not the underwear.

One day we ran out of peanut butter at home for a sandwich that made up my school lunch. I knew not to even ask my parents for lunch money, there was none. As I was counting out my Christmas change, the money I had earned picking wild blueberry's during the summer, my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Christianson, (silly Millie Gillie, the class taunted her behind her back, as she had been a Gillie, a million years ago, before she had married a Christianson) watched pationtly as I fumbled and scroundged through my pockets for enough money for a meal ticket. Millie, who never ever left the class room unattended, because after all, we were an unruly lot, had a sudden emergency and left the room for a good ten minutes. I continued to stand at her desk, until I had gathered the last of my pennies for that days lunch. I returned to me seat and made the most of my free time with my classmates until Millie finally came back to a class that, by this time, was in quite an uproar. Wanting to regain control of her chaotic classroom, Millie first stops at her desk, slamming her cash box shut containing all the lunch money, before grabbing out a handful of tickets. She walks past my desk and slides a stack of them onto it and zealously attempts to quieten the rowdy kids and start our days lessons. I tucked all those tickets into the forefront of my desk and counted them when I had a chance. I slipped my hand into the crack of open desk, as I pretended to be concentrating and counted them with my fingers. There were over a months worth of tickets in that pile. I had enough tickets to eat lunch for up until Thanksgiving. I had an excited and sick feeling in the pit of my stomach knowing I could eat a real lunch but it was a mistake. I waited behind when all the other kids ran down to gym class. "Mrs. Christianson, you gave me too many tickets" I confessed to Millie when the class had cleared the room. "You are late for gym, Munkay", Millie quietly told me, "run off and I will count the balance in my cash box when you are gone and I will see if there has been a mistake."

Welfare, my proud parents thought,were for the poor . It was never brought up in our home that we would go on any assistance. My help came in the form of my sixth grade teacher. "Nonsense, she told me after gym. I don't make mistakes. The money was right to the penny. Somehow that stack of lunch tickets in my desk never ran out that year. They just unexplainably appeared. Mrs. Christenson knew pride ran in our family.

When my son's lunch funds get low in his account balance, his school stamps his hand as a visual reminder for me to send in a check. K2 came home the other day with his hand stamped and informed me he needed money for his account as his balance was getting low. "And what happens if you run completely out?", I asked him. "Then we ONLY get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich mom! Please don't make me eat that, it's looks so embarrasing." That's ok baby", I answered him, "I won't make you eat peanut butter. Go and count how many underwear you have in your drawer."

My children enjoy when I tell them my hardship stories. They just have a hard time believing them. Of that I'm glad.

Passive Aggression vrs Retired Evil in a Bad Rug

It was an eternity I spent in that check out line. The line to the front of the Walmart pharmacy did not move a fraction all afternoon as my daylight burned without me outside the store. I had meant only to breeze in, five minutes tops, and pick up this months prescriptions. I had planned ahead. Done my math. Called in my much needed scripts after making sure the proper funds in my checking account. With a four digets to the left of my decimal point in place, I was good to go. But the hangers came in groups of 24, and the charity garage sale could use a bunch of them, along with the cleaning and storage supplies that tempted me on the way in, and the socks that both my boys were in dire need of. So there I stood, juggling my heavy load and growing roots into the hard tile beneath me as the infomercials played on. That is when I encountered evil incarnate herself.

Disguised as a pug dog in a bad wig, she bullied her way in front of me, using her cart like a demolition derby vehicle. Maybe it was the bouffant flaming red wig, teased to Jesus, that blocked her peripheral vision, or the dazzleing gleam from the fistfull of rocks that adorned her hands, that kept her from seeing me there, waiting only somewhat patiently by now. "Eithel!", she exclaims after wedging her empty cart directly in front of me, where she is able to pat the woman now standing at the counter on her back. That old hound of hell, jowls waggin, laments endlessly to Eithel, the difficulties of her life as she rests her more than ample sagging bosom onto her barren cart. She is now a human road block in support hose. With only time to kill. Mine. Eithel, polite lady that she is, has a hard time getting away from this walking poke in the eye, but finally does and breaks free. Not needing her battering cart, Lucifer, or Lucy as I have now come to think of her, shoves it off, to bounce off me and coast to rest at the end on the isle were the expensive Nicorest is shelved within the pharmists sight to distract tobacco jonesing shoplifters.

Lucy is a regular here. The poor counter girl reconizes her, and before she knows what she is asking, inquires after Lucy's welfare. Lucy is grouchy. Lucy is in a thither. Lucy is going out of town, to her sisters deluxe condo in Palm Springs, and needs her meads. Stupid slow counter girl has filled all her meds. Too many scrips, bumbling incompetent counter girl that she is. Brainless little know nothing has to count out only 21 days of each drug waiting. Not the full amount. She is to call the good doctor who wrote these prescriptions, as Lucy waits and huffs and drums the counter. She must call the insurance company also because there is no way possible that the price could be that high. Five dollars is five dollars, is five dollars, don't you know?

Fighting back my growls of rage at this ominous granny, I yearn to drop my ungainly load into her unused cart, as my knuckles now drag on the floor from the weight. But I resist dropping hangers, anyway.

When she is done barraging the teary counter girl, she spins, still grumbling, and rolling her eyes, to reclaim her cart from where she had abandoned it, forcing me to clumsily side step her cart so she can squeeze it past me and the end of the isle, saving herself any inconvenience of walking around me and down the longer route to the stores entrance. I know she just prefers to see me dance. I supply her a moving target as she runs over my foot after bruising my thigh during her dramatic exit.

It is with a smile that I make out my check for my drugs when I hear the store security alarms going off. On my way out, I spot Lucy and she is madder than a wet hornet at the indignity of being stopped by the store police for trying to leave the store with unpaid for nicorest in her cart. Yeah, plenty of smoke already where you are going back to there Lucky. No need for that. It is my turn to pretend not to see her standing there as I walk past.

Coveting Lust

I know now the difference between desire and greed. I only hope I can recognize it with my eyes open.

Shack Nasty Day

So, maybe I am not your mother. I do not want or even like most jewerly. If I am drawn to shiny objects, it would be the sparkle of stainless steal for my kitchen or the gleam of chrome for my Harley. I do love flowers, but I have un endless hook up at Sis's flower shop. Food is always a good bet, but I have come to expect that daily. But that does not mean I am unpleasable come mothers day. A weekend at Shack Nasty is all I want.

When I first met my darling Hubby, he told me about his favorite place, his cabin. His faced glowed with an erethral love as he spoke of the wonderful retreat he had built, three hours north of the cities, on the iron range. With much anticipation, as young lovers, we threw the bare essentials into a bag and hit the road for a weekend there.

It off an old highway, then a county road, then a low maintenance seasonal road. Slinging our packs over our shoulders, we trekked the last half mile up an old logging road that was reverting back to it's original shape, due to the growing underbrush. The dank little hovel he took me too, I thought, was just an abandoned logging camp. No electricity, no plumbing, lots of critters. It was with great pride he gave me the tour of the one room little abode. "Look! Windows!", he would point out excitedly, "Bunk beds and a table!" All this I could of seen from the door.

Don't take me wrong now, I am not a snob. I grew up in the backwoods. We did not always have plumbing or much electricity. And I am all about nature, I really am. But when my Hubby had spoke of this place, I had expected more. Comfort perhalps. But this was the boy who grew up in south Minneapolis and would bike twenty miles one way to be able to fish in good fishing lake. This was his retreat. He had probley dreamed of such a place constantly was he was growing up in his rough inner city neibhorhood. And it was well made, he had created it with his own hands. He proclaimed it our "love shack". (Go ahead, in your mind sing the B-52's song in your head.) I immediately renamed it more appropriately, Shack Nasty.

Over the years, we have made many memorable times there. When our kids were born, it did not stop our pilgrimage every spring opening fishing season to Shack Nasty. We just learned to just pack more things. It did not make my husband hesitate one heart beat to take an infant along. His reasoning, one more in the boat, one more limit of northern were were allowed to keep. Years I had to work opening weekend, Hubby took the babies, diapers and all, by himself.

The only addition or repair we have ever made is the out house we added a few years back.
I go less up there now, choosing to leave it a primal male bonding experience for my men. It is the place were they can be themselves, and let it all hang out. No matter how nasty and unwashed it is.

Around Febuary, in the pitch of spring fever, the boys start making preparations for their yearly ritual. They sit on the couch, watching fishing shows on TV, putting new line on their rods and practice casting at the fish on the screen. Large plastic containers are bought and stocked with survival food. The kind I would never buy for them. Canned puddings, chilli, sugar laden sodas, bags of licorice, sunflower seeds. Months are counted.

March they pack duffel bags full of clothes. Swim suits to snow suits and everything inbetween. You never know what the temperature will be opening weekend. New fishing lures are scouted and bought before packing away. Weekends are counted.

April they are out cleaning the boat for the year. It is vacuumed, cleaned and polished. Fillet knives are sharpened. Days are counted.

Opening day falls on Mothers day weekend every year in our state. This upsets many women, as a lot of them don't want to share any time or attention on "their" day. And many do not fish. Not me. As much as I used to enjoy the fishing trip with my men. I now lookforward to my precious time alone. I count the hours.

I will eagerly pack them off. I will walk outside and help them load everything into the truck. I will even walk as far as the end of the drive way as a few tears slip out and roll down my cheek's, as I wave at the back of the truce cram packed full of sports parafinallia, as they pull out of my sight down the road. Then I skip back to the house.

I will walk around my now too empty house and adjust to it's silence. Sometimes I wait a full twenty minutes before I call someone. I have, in the past just shown up at my sisters house with a lonely forlorn look and spent the weekend. Or I will rent the chick movies I never have the chance to watch and walk around in my underwear, eating ice cream by the gallon straight out of the container. For breakfast. I will talk to the cat and dance with the dog. Yes, I do those things anyway but now I really mean it. Sometimes I will cook myself a wonderful gourmet dinner and eat of my good china and drink from my crystal. I have tackled big projects, like washing all my windows, or I will remain in my bead and read until I can no longer see the blurry words in front of me. For fourty-eight hours, life is good. Life is mine.

This year, however, evil is in the air. Hubby's job responsibilities may wreck havoc on our plans. I am trying hard not to scream and wail on the inside. I need my time. That short, not often enough time when I am not a wife or a mother.

If it has to be this way, I will be alone. Even if it is in my mind. I will revert back to primal woman on my inside, with or without them here. I will stroll around here covered only in an exfoliating mask and salsa with what ever four legged creature dares look in my direction. I will sing my own bad rendition of Gwen Stefani's "Holla Back Girl", while eating a brownie as big as my head, followed by a salad. And I will bawl unabashed at the sappy part of what ever I am whatching with out letting any taunts affect me. I will have my day. I have many others ones to worry about therapy for my men. I will have my own Shack Nasty Day, with or without them.

Three Questions

Three questions of the day:

Question- Does a reality challenged seven year old really write all your poems and lyrics?

Answer- Yes, but she is heavily influenced by Godiva chocolate liquor laced with
barbituates first.

Question- In a card game, what to you enjoy best?

Answer- Dealin

Question- What is the name of the hard candy attached to the end of a stick?

Answer- Lolly, I'm gonna pop you right up side your head if you ask me that again.

Automated Smile

I have packed the thin white plastic bags too full again. I feel them as they cut sharply into my fingers. The bags contents barley definy gravity and will break leaving my groceries rolling across the supermarkets atrium just to further inconvenience me. My lame plan is to run from the store to my jeep waiting outside in the parking lot. I know my timing is crutial. I have places to go, people to talk to, meals to cook, and clean ups to avoid. Now what is the delay with the automated door I wonder. I shift my gaze from the straining bags embedding themselves into my flesh to the door ahead of me. I see now the cause of my brief seconds wait. Ahead of me, he is also struggling with his bags. But he is counterbalancing his. His cane in one hand, bags in the other. Instead of moving around him to use the other door, I take the time to study the stranger in front of me. It is his boots that draw my attention. More specifically his boot. One foot is clad in the most expensive, highly polished pointy toed cowboy boot I have ever seen. Must be custom made. In contrast, the gentleman's opposite foot is wearing a sturdy thick soled orthopedic shoe. Probly also custom made, but to allow room for a brace.

He either senses I am waiting behind him or he catches a glimpse of my reflection in the glass in front of us. He turns and smiles. It is not the apologetic and shameful, "Sorry I have inconvenience you, smile", that I have grown to expect. It is a confident, "I see you looking at me baby", smile. And I smiled back at him. In that moment, I really was.

Geep

Sometimes, when dealing with a converse of emotion, all you have is a sound effect.