If you were my man...

I would never make you go clothes shopping for me. Real men do not belong in women's shops. I am perfectly capably of dressing myself without you. I don't want to be in a mall myself, why would I make you.

I will never try to make you to stop and ask directions. If we are lost long enough, I will eventually have to go to the bathroom, giving me the opportunity to ask myself.

I will tease you outrageously. I am not cruel when I tease. You are in trouble if I don't tease.

I will not ask you to ride my bitch seat. I will ask that you tune my bike however.

You will stop on your way home and gladly buy our feminine protection units. Because if we didn't need them, we would be pregnant. You will also know to pick up some steaks and chippies and chocolate.

If you piss me off, I will tell you. I don't hold back and say nothing is wrong.

Do not buy me jewerly. I don't like jewerly so much. If I find something I want, I will buy it, without guilt.

You will not be jealous of me kissing my friends. Or the kids. Or my friends kids. Or the cat. You may draw the line on my kissing the picture of The Rock on my fridge door, or Dr. Theeth, my new carving knife but you will get over it.

The words, "Does this make me look fat?", will never be asked of you. I can tell what you like by the look in your eyes. But I dress to please me.

I will never discuss our intimate life with my girlfriends. I might blog a little about it.

I will change my mind often. Or not.

You will not spend hours waiting for me to get off the phone with my friends. Any number of friends however will be sitting in my kitchen with me at any given time. You will learn to wear pants at all times.

There will be a book at all times in the car. And in the boat. And your truck. And stacks by the leather chair. And you will have to move them out of the way to see the tv screen on the counter. But just don't lose my page. I do not have time for all that re-reading.

I would never have you wait for me in a beauty salon. I feel so bad for those poor uncomfortably suckers who then have to gush at their significant others appearance. I get impationt having to wait for myself, I would not wait for anyone.

I can be ready and dressed for anything in under thirty minutes tops. That's showered, make up and clean clothes.

If you are wrapped up in sports and games, I am just gone. Not that I would leave you. I'd just find somewhere else to be, doing something I like. I will not whine for your attention.

I will want you to do all mechanical technical stuff. And you will want to after you see the mess I make of such things.

You will learn more about food than you ever imagined.

I will ask you to open all jars. Seams as I am losing my grip.

This guy I know..

He can build anything, and it will last forever. Has the best laugh. Loves my family more than his own. He never complains or whines. Knows computer stuff. His eyes are the bluest I have ever seen. Can make me crack up with one word. Never bad mouths or belittles anyone, even the people he doesn't like. Is a manly man. Knows stuff like geothermal hydraulics, Pythagorean theorem, and Roman empire artillery. Tells me I'm the best. Can find any address in any city, and will ask directions. Can carry my world on his shoulders. Thinks I walk on water. Watches the bloodiest scarriest show but cries when little kids get hurt on the evening news. Worries about my future. Is polite. Brags me up to his friends. Does my laundry better than me. Writes me songs. Has medals and trophy's he has never spoke of. Buys me flowers and waters them. Is more ceative than me, but doesn't consider himself artistic. Sharpens my knives. Doesn't spend hours watching sports or playing games without me. Has studied my ancestry. Tunes my motorcycle that he hates. Has never said no to me.

But things are not all wonderful with him. He hates my cat. Cannot pay a bill. Is a slob. Won't dance. Can't remember my birthday. Or anniversary. Watches the same movies over and over. Is experiencing hearing loss. He eats crap. Whistles out of tune under his breath. Doesn't know music. Valls baby oil "fore play in a bottle." Likes to wake up early. Gets in my way. Can't dress himself. Half the time doesn't spell my name right. Get frustrated when I sit on the sink and pick my face. Has no sense of smell. Is jealous. The thought that he make much more money than I do bothers me. Doesn't have an adventurous bone in his body. Comes from a long line of certifiable crazes. Listens to talk radio. Loves White Castles. Pesters me about reading too much. Then begs me to read out loud to him. Tells me when to go to bed. Plans every holiday and weekend around fishing. Hides my library books and dry cleaning instead of returning them. Watches the weather channel and get exasperated when I don't know current weather conditions or forecasts. Likes golf.

But I can't imagine my live without him. He is the yang to my yin. He is the reason I keep a wad of bail money cash in the shoe in my closet. Why I know the difference between a terrarazal and poured concrete floor. He is boyscout to my wild child. The only call I will take before dawn and smile. The peanut butter to my jelly and the salt on my popcorn. How I know the barameteric pressure on the coast. The reason I am gratefull for the fishing lure birthday present two months early. Due to him I can dance alone, without being self concious, if I have too. He is the Abbot to my Costello and the Benny to my June. This guy is something.

Fall Hard

The end of summer always saddens me. And I'll tell you why. With it comes shorter, darker days. Fall ushers in the cold that kills all the colorful plants and sends all God's little creatures running for their lives. No more worry free late nights and sleeping in in the morning. No more all night sleep overs parties and satay with mango dip or flaming marshmellos for breakfast. Gone are the spur of the moment road trips to the Spam factory or to see an Amish. Taking a shower every third day or so is now out of the option. I will not feel the soft green grass beneath my feet for a good long time.
From now on it will be hours of painful home work until I look forward to crawling off to bed at an insanely early hour just to escape taxing my brain. Then there is that damn alarm clock I hate with a vengeance that robs me from my slumbering bliss. The cold cereal for breakfast if I have the time before trying to squeeze myself into my short plaid shirt and fumbling with the knot of my mandatory tie. Franticly rummaging through all my knee high stockings to find an unsnagged matching pair. The cold hard rock under my shivering butt, because it is just not cool to wear a coat, as I sit out at the end of my driveway in the pre-dawn hours waiting for my bus. The smell of diesel gas, dirty rubber, Axe and body odor on the noisy crowded bus as I stair out the window at the passing neibhorhood, pretending I am anywhere but on a direct route to hell. The standing across the road, just off school property, having my last cigarette before flicking it off into the gutter when the shrill bell calls me in for the start of my instructions. The force of the security guards rough handa as they grab me as I try to enter the brick building. The pain that hits to my very soul when the taizer zapps my already asphalt scrapped leg. Having myself once again subjected to the humility of the cops question my authenticity, as I stand there with my uniform all rumpled as they call for psychological evaluation, when all they really need is to allow me to enter the building and open my locker, next to the offices, where I left my school I.D. Seeing the look of disgust in my oldest sons eyes as they unkindly escort me off , as this year he will be old enough to attend the big school in our community with the really hot principal.
*may contain traces of lie

Hue Gone Bye

Red was the color of the silk dress that hugged her body like a warm liquid skin. He couldn't keep his tanned hands off her when she sauntered around in that hot little number. Where the soft material caressed her curves, his touch followed. That dress was his polar beacon to follow around the island. The material was used like a conquistador flaunts a cape to entice a bull. The tropical sunset couldn't hold a candle to the magic that fabric radiated.

Red was the color of his face as the accusations flew. The screams sailed off the liana like the birds of paradise returning to the tree tops. Wings carried them across the lawns and on to the sand, where the words were pulled away by the salty tide. She could hear no serf pound now, no mandolin hummed. She only focused in on his angry distorted face with shocked fasination. When the spittle from his barage sprayed across her face, she finally blinked and reached up to her ear, pulling the flower from her hair and tossed it into the air. And then she threw back her head and laughed.

"That read is spelled R-E-A-D, not R-E-D", he said in a disgusted voice, as they sat buckled safely in their seats awaiting take off. "Really," she answered without paying him any attention while looking back at the small crowd of people waving goodbye from the hot tarmac. "Maybe you should know I don't do cross word puzzles. But I do know how to spell," Kiss my sunburned ass."" "Maybe I'll try giving that a whirl", he answered, looking hopefully across the tops of his sunglasses at her. She turned from the window and answered with a smile as she rolled her eyes, "Maybe you will. But get me one last slow gin screw for the road, will ya?" And she never looked back.

Practicing Being Ancient

I day dream more now of the past than I do of the future. It is easier for me to revisit memories than make up new unexplored fantasy's. My life is set, my destine plotted out in stone. I have my husband, my home, my career and two point three kids. But before I close my eyes and sleep at night, I do not feel a longing or desire for the unknown. Maybe I am just too tired or too old. Maybe it is the same thing.

My Marlboro Man

Dale was everything to me. Everything a seventeen year old girl could dream of. He was a handsome older man, exotic, mysterious, and unknown to my family. And he had good reason not to be familiar with my family. Because he was the man every mother hid their daughters from.

I met Dale in his brothers bar. It was the old post office/general store, Dale's brother had renovated. Less than a mile away from our house, it was the only business, other than the garage in the rual ghost town we lived. I was never carded when I when in the dark tacky saloon. Maybe because Dale's brother was desperate for my money. I had always hung out with an older crowd, and a single girl was always welcome there. If there was an available woman in the bar, the men would stay longer and drink more. And at the end of the bar, that's where Dale always stood.

I was flattered with the obsessive attention he poured on me. That was before I realized he was so stoned that he found my minutiae fascinating. Not ever having been exposed to a loser, I had no idea the caliber of nair d'well I was drinking with. I was having way too good a time being in a bar with a man in his thirties. We would party way past last call and then close the place and dance on the empty dance floor. Sometimes, when he got the munchies, we would eat breakfast at 3:a.m. With all the neon bar lights and music and meals at all hours, it was my Las Vegas.

And sometimes he would take me back to his parents cabin on the lake, and we would talk about our future. Or more like he would talk about his future, and I would listen, tucked underneath the saddle blanket beside him in his bed, and try to picture myself with him on a ranch out west.

Dale was our post man, when our regular mail carrier took time off. Which was often because the full time carrier drank in the bar regular too. But Dale never once drove me home, or picked me up either for that matter. He was such a chicken he would hang up if my dad answered the phone when he called me. That alone should have been my red flag. But even when I started to see Dale for the low life he really was, the trill of my indiscretion still lured me in.

When he started tripping aacid and disappearing for a month or two at a time, it was hard on my still tender little heart. I wanted to save him. I tried everything a juvenile girl could do to rescue him from himself. I would become so wasted myself, or I let him think I was, he would have to take care of me. Or I would throw a fit, pick a fight and storm out of the bar, so he would come running after me. The last time I tried that with Dale, when he picked me up on the side of the road, I tricked him into driving me into the next town, to an A.A. meeting. He dropped me off on the side of the road outside the building. I remembered watching the tail lights of his Nova as he drove away from me thinking this time, I really was going to sleep over at a girlfriends house were my parents had always assumed I was.

I turned eighteen when he was out in South Dakota. I welcomed in my adulthood without him. My friends took me back to the neighborhood bar to celebrate my becoming an adult. There was a party already going on, as Dale's grandfather's will had died and left the family a huge wad of cash. Dale's brother paid off the bar. Dale invested all his money in an expensive race horse.

The horse died ten days later.

Some years back, I learned Dale had married a barmaid. They moved out to Arizona where the desert air is easier on the lungs as Dale died of lung cancer.

I picture Dale driving his mustard colored Nova, wearing his cowboy hat, a white t-shirt, baggy shorts, and tall pointy toed boots, delivering our mail. I used to imagine myself, instead of hiding behind the cedar trees in our yard to get a glimpse of him, running and jumping into his car, and pushing him aside, and driving him myself to an A.A. meeting. Or to South Dakota. Anywhere that was not an unhealthy smoke filled bar.

But that too, died.

The Things My Boss Will Never Know

I listen to drinking music when I drive around the campus in my Jeep. My "Drunk and Disorderly" cd, and AC/DC's, "have a drink on me" are my current favorites.

The time my dishwasher hurt his back, it wasn't because he hurt it tossing heavy crap into the dumpster. Him and I were having a high kick contest, aiming at the hanging pots above the counter when he kicked a little too high and slipped, landing on his tail bone. I won by default.

All those beets I cooked last week was not for my guests. I was making hair dye for the line server/future rock star drummer.

My mug with the company logo on it and a tall gin and tonic in it is a good thing.

My camera phone is in my pocket at all times. I have quite the nice collection of celebrity ass.

It is hot in my kitchen. I grill with the walk in cooler door wide open. Screw the grumpy matenace guys who have to come defrost the motor when it freezes up. Rumors are the morning chef cooks nude. But I won't be stopping in early with my camera phone to prove that one.

Saturday night I sent all the left over prime rib and what ever food I can find home with Alice, my seventy four year old "assistant". It will feed her kids and grand kids and half the trailer park known as "little Chicago", she lives in. I also due her dishes. And her floors. So fire me for that.

I come up with most of my own recipes. When guests ask me to write them down, I make stuff up.

That self conscious chick that came in last month, the one with anorexia, that you wanted me to measure out her food and hoax her to eat, I didn't. I found out she lived on ice cream when she did eat so she and I sat together at my desk and ate Sundays and read some of my cookbooks. She left with my book that came with my ice cream maker. And five pounds.

I write out my cheques at the liquor store with my company pen. And I laugh. And ask the cashier if she will gift wrap.

I liked that scitzophenic chick who was delusional. Gave me something to look forward too, wondering if she would come to dinner dressed as Madonna, or J. Lo. She was a good eater and very grateful.

The souvenirs that my co-workers asked for from my recent trip were, a shot glass from Finland, a Hard Rock T-shirt from Sweden, Black Death, a beer stein, and porn. I drew the line at porn. But I told them all about it.

When I call over to the main kitchen and ask for you to send Josh over, it's not because he is a great help. I'm helping him get into collage. Poor kid has way too much future to spend his life here.

I save all the scraps off the plates and leave a big plate of food out by the dumpster for the feral cats. If I ever get close to that big manx, he is going home with me.

I don't understand the coincidence between between the big flat top grill not working when that big guy lazy counter leaning guy I don't like very much cooks breakfast, but I do know a little puff of breath aimed at the pilot light will cause it to go out.

I am not qualified for this job. Did not have the experience. Wonder every day how I ended up here.

I do a killer impersonation of you. My biggest fear is you walking into my kitchen and catching me doing you.

Battle Cries

Thier low menacing growls didn't really frighten me. When they escalated into all out attack, teeth bared, flesh and muscle ripping, I was not in a calm state of zen, mind you, but I dealt. The sight of spit flying, claws scraping, and blood dripping, was not exactly what I'd plan at next years party. Especially when it was my own blood. It was the sound of her hysterical piercing shrieks that unnerved me. It scared me shitless. I know if I heard that sound again, I'd bite the dog next to me.

Anything But Nothing

When I could no longer love him unconditionally, I had to hate him without reserve. Living without passion was just not an option.

Progressively Nordic Thoughts

Oh the sound of the natives talking sounds so musical. Kinda magical.

What? We are walking around at 11 pm? No way. It feels live maybe 4 in the afternoon. Cept I'm tired. And the bars are hoppin. Sunshine is good.

Dang they are all so gorgeous here. She could be a model. So could her. And her. Natural beauties. I'm the ugliest person here.

Look at that big long word. There are more letters in that word than the sentence, look at that word. What the hell could in mean? Bet it's magic, that's what that is.

Oh fresh salmon.

That building is so ornate. Man that's pretty. And yellow.

They are polite here.

Ha ha. Seagulls are so cute. I want one for a pet. Hope my kid actually catches one.

Where is the stinking reindeer on the menu? Is the word for reindeer reindeer. I bet it is something close like, reindeersuoienlieninmovi.

We need trains and busses like this back in the states.

Every block has patio seating. That's picture perfect, all those beautiful people drinking coffee in the sunshine.

They don't make eye contact here.

I'm not going back. I'll immigrate. Or defect if I have to. I'll become a defective immigrant, that's what I'll be.

Woo-hoo. Ha. She thought I was a native. I love that. I wonder what she asked me for? I should of pretended I was a native and pointed her to that magic word store.

This hotel is so coolimienin!

How the hell do I turn on the lights?

Oh it's a gay porn store. So that's what that big magic store is.

Not salmon again.

Pay to use a bathroom? Get out.

How do people not run into each other here? They are so busy avoiding anything even close to eye contact and gabbering on their Nokia's, how do they not bong into each other? Oh I will make one of them look at me, I will...."Where you been? Since yoou've been goone, seams like it's been forever bla bla bla."

When do we get too see a reindeer anyway? Elk ya. Caribou ya. Iwanna see a damn reindeer.

Anything but salmon.

Can't anyone sew some curtains in this place and block out that cursed sun? I need my sleep.

Oh yeah I like seeing new places, I just don't like getting there. So do I like traveling or not? LOOK AT ME!

*Help. Oh help. Help Help Help.

Let me eat my salmon in piece you flying rat. Shoo you retarded seagull!.

Oh those are reindeer. Dude they are big.

Why didn't I pack a stinkin snow suit.

When is breakfast I want my salmon.

How can they all sit out here in the bright sunshine drinking coffee in the glaring sunshine? They look like rows of daiseys with their faces turned up to the sun. Find some shade. For me.

That's it. My future is settled. I'm buying this place and turning it into the only pizza place for two hundred miles.

I just want to sit on a couch and watch American tv. I will not walk, bike, bus, train ride, sail or fly another place. Oh look at that pretty yellow building. I hope they have salmon there.

Bar. Bar. Bar. Bar. Bar. Bar. My hotel. My hotel bar. My hotel restaurant bar. My room. My mini bar. Ah I almost need a drink to hide the smell of all my stinking dirty laundry. Naw. I'll just wash them in the sauna.

I don't want to leave. Ever. But I gotta go now. "Hey you speak English? Know how long this salmon will keep?"

* That is the though racing through my mind when I got off the train mistakenly when heading towards the Helsinki airport with my bags and all our passports and money and I looked across the tracks and realized the rest my boys and sister had not gotton off. It was the worse case senerio. I did not know where I was, didn't speak the language, didn't know where my family was, and had a plane to catch. Pictures to follow.

Aboriginal

The Finns rode their bikes with purpose. With their backs straight, elbows in, eyes forward and mouths set they put their best stoic face forward. They pedaled within the lines, manueuvered around pedestrians skillfully and with lots of distance left inbetween.

My sister rode like her ten year old self-hair flying, elbows out, Marimekko bag slung across her back, head up and her eyes pealed for adventure. She pedaled over cobblestones, junped curbs, swerved around the traffic, coasted down hills and pedaled like the devil going up. She discovered castles and churches that looked like castles, markets full of fresh peas and produce, war ships and submarines, the best ice cream and salmon always salmon.


written by my Sis Deb after Turku/Abo Finland

Reindeer Games

There I was smack dab in my least favorite spot on earth, the shopping mall. I would have rather been anywhere else. A grave yard at midnight. A dentist office. Giving blood. In a dentist office located at a cemetery donating blood at midnight. But no, the kids needed clothes so there I was, in the urban jungle skate shop, bopping to techno music while studying board graphics as they tried on pants. In my mind I was dealing with my self by pretending not to be there. I was already tangoing in Helsinki instead of the mall that stank of clothes sizing and testosterone.
"Monkey! I haven't seen you in soo long. Where you been?"
"Oh hey", I told my neighboor, "I've been working full time. And then some." She is a chick my own age. Our kids go to school together. We go to the same church.
"You already buying school clothes for your boys?", she asked, eyeing the mountain of jeans and hoodies I was holding.
"Nope. We just need warm clothes for our summer vacation."
"Where are you going?"
"Iceland. Finland. Lapland. Sweden."
"Oh well I could think of more romantic places to go with my husband."
"Hubby is not going."
"Who are you going with? Not the boys?"
"The boys and my Sis."
"Oh that's too bad. Shame you couldn't go with girlfriends so you could do fun things. You know, like shop."
"Boys! We are going. Now. Just grab your size."

There is no one else I would rather go on adventure with than my family. Going on reindeer safari across the arctic circle or fishing in the fords I can't imagine doing with anyone else. Cept maybe Grace. But then I don't know how she would handle the nude beach. Talk to you in a month.

Love?

The first time he told me he loved me, I asked him why. I did not respond with the same endearing proclamation. I did not know what I thought of him much less what I felt.
He answered honestly and simply, "Because you are so easy to love."
That was not the answer I had wanted. I needed an ego feed. "Easy", was all I heard and did not want to be thought of in that way.
So what if we were in bed.
The best, the smartest, the hottest....Would of done me fine.
So I answered, "Thank you."
Nine years and four kids later I grew up and married him after I realized what a compliment that was.
I am anything but easy to love.

Oblivious

I guess I never noticed his jealousy of me. I was unaware of how the over attentive waiter upset him or the charming police officer's eagerness offended him. But not only did it anger him, he would file it away in his memory to worry over at his leisure. But then again I never noticed he was gay. Until the day I seen him running down my driveway more girl than I could ever be. Then it was my turn to feel envious.

Baby's Gone Dietary

"Still can't sleep baby?", she asked in a drowsy voice when she finely felt him slip inside the bed beside her. The girlfriend knew he had been hurting. "Sssh, get your rest, you have a couple more minutes before you gotta get up for your shift", he whispered softly and snuggled up to her warm soft body. "Where you talking to someone? I thought I heard your voice." "No one. No one important. Anymore."

The man all the way across the city lay in his bed and stared at the receiver in his hand. He knew he was in trouble. "What was that about? Who would call at this time of night?", his wife asked with as much irritation a person can muster at 4:00 a.m. "It was the chef I had human resources send packing on Monday."

The campus was electric with excitement and tension the next morning. Security were vigilantly posted at the entrances. There where no walkers or sunbathers out enjoying the warm summer day on the grounds. The only motion out side other than the family's of geese swimming around the ponds and feeding off beetles, were the self important buzz of the matenance department canvassing the wooded perimeter in their motorized carts. Locked doors greeted the girl when she arrived. With some trepidation she walked through the unusually quiet dining room, looking for some explanation to the rift in the atmosphere.

She paused the main kitchen door and listened. She could here the muffled tones of hushed conversation, but could not make out their words, Slowly she opened the swinging door slowly. Co workers stood in gleeful groups gossiping about the excitement. Terrorist threats to the department supposedly had been issued from an ex employee. Frightened individuals were instructed on how to remain safe and follow crisis protocol if the dangerous individual did make it onto the campus. The department head himself appeared, with his adolesent son tucked by his side, and in the conference room where the window shades had been pulled safely shut, from unwanted eyes or scopes, he told every one not to worry, he had arranged the necessary precautions so the staff could continue their jobs without fear during the lockdown. The buzz of wild speculations and questions only grew. The girl quietly left the room, unnoticed.

Downstairs, at the pay phone she sat, fighting the sick feeling burning in her stomach as the anger kept her shaking finger from dialing the right number listed on the employee list. The thought of what she was doing might be inappropriate only briefly crossed her mind. After all, the coworkers numbers were posted everywhere. She was praying there would be an answer, but was surprise when he answered non the less. "Baby?" His calm voice sounded happy to hear her voice. "Hey how are you doing?", she tenativly asked him. "I'm ok, considering they don't want me there." "Not all of us. They never did appreciated tour skills here." "Yeah, I got that from the boss this morning when I called him to ask him why, about the time my honey was getting up for the breakfast shift." "Baby, you shouldn't have done that." "I had to ask him why, he did me like that. And say goodbye. I even asked if I could put him and his lovely family on my Christmas card list." "He made the executive decision to take that as a THREAT Baby." "What? Why?" "Just DON'T come back here Baby, Ok? Please? I can get you all your books and your molds and your things from here. "Naw, I don't want any of that stuff. " "You sure? "I can give it to your girl, if she comes back in to work. It's no problem. I heard she took a day today." "No I don't even want a memory from there." "I need to go Baby, they are going to be wondering where I am." "Ok, thanks for calling." "Bye, Baby. You are missed."

She thought about him as she climbed the service stairs. She remembered him feeding the stray cats by the garbage dumpster every night. She remembered him showing the mentally challenged dishwasher how to slice a cucumber. Of all the times he would be called in special to cook for the president of the corporation and many of the important clientele because he was by far the best chef the place had ever had. And worse of all she remembered the stricken look on his face after he would get sent to the human resourced department each time the managers felt he needed reprimand for something like having the balls to tell the night supervisor to stop staring at the ladies because it made them feel uncomfortable. Or telling jokes to cheer the line server who is going through radiation treatments.

With a smirk she walked back inside upstairs to watch the employee's huddled around the boss, clucking condolences while pouring the empathy over his over inflated ego. He was in trouble himself with human resources. That is why he was making the fuss. The girl would not have fawn over him, or look him in his eye, even if he were to notice anything other than himself. She might have looked at him, at that instant, through a cross hairs herself, if she had let her anger burn. But he is not worth it. He will hang himself.

Anna Hiltunen's Bible.

All I have of Anna

I never met the lady. She died long before I was born. The little I did know about my grandmother I mostly learn form my Aunt Hilma or other old timers in the area. I heard she was a beautiful woman. A tiny sweet natured thing with jet black hair and eyes. And would bake half a dozen loves of bread a day to feed her family. But going through the old house last fall, I found a trace of who she was, to tie in with the legends I had heard.

Anna was sold as a child to become an indentured servant to a prosperous family in Finland. When the wealthy family decided to immigrate to America, they brought along Anna, then age thirteen, in place of their own daughter who did not want to leave. It took Anna six months aboard a boat with little food to eat before reaching Ellis Island and later settling on the Iron Range of Minnesota. Later she met and married my scroundrel of a Grandfather and became the mother of nine homesteading a section of land in northern Minnesota.

When her rich "adopted" family died, they left Anna their house and land on the Iron Range. Anna, at the time was too poor to pay the inheritance taxes on the estate and it auctioned off. Had my grandparents sold their own homestead to pay the taxes they would of owned the richest mine in the state. Anna was never meant for material wealth.

All I found in the seldom used leather bound Bible was her obituary. A letter in Finish from her motherland. And a strange glass picture of a woman and a child. And a dried lady slipper my sister and I picked and hid in the Bible years ago when we were younger than my boys now. The obituary gave me her maiden name. The town she originated from in the obituary does not appear on any map. I cannot understand the letter. I hope the blurry image is Anna and her mother.

I keep the yellowed newspaper clipping here by my computer and look at it every day. I decided this spring the boys and my Sis and I will be going on a reindeer safari across the Arctic circle this summer. Being dark featured my guess is that Anna was of the gypsy indiginous Sami origin. But that too is at this point only a guess. It will only take us twenty five hours in the air, as opposed to six months by boat, plus over land by ox cart time, and our belly's will be full. When we go to sleep at the Palace Linna, I will wonder if she had seen the castle as she sailed away from her home. And you know for sure I will think of her often when we stay in the much more modest Hotel Anna. And eat some bread.

Stolkholm Thursday

The syndrome actually begins on Wednesday night at the rehab I were I work. Thursday is the patients departure day and on Wednesday, if their rejuvenate has been successful, they gush etusiasim and gratitude. And they expect a party along with back slapping and cake for all their accomplishment. Some are scared, terrified of life back in the real world and beg to stay for longer. Most of their self centered needy butts I just want to drop kick out the front door as their grand finaly send off.

They are the same people that I have been feeding two meals a day from any where from one week to two months. I am in control of, for the few that do not chain smoke like dragons, their last addiction. Food. I know their peculiar likes and dislikes. But to them they are needs. "I NEED chocolate milk. I am allergic to white milk." Like you could be allergic to dairy that does not contain chocolate. There are the ones who claim to be allergic to red meat, glutton, night shade vegetables and soy, but will eat off the other guests dirty plates when they think no one is watching them. They will refuse to see our dietitian to be put on a meal plan, they do not want yet another choice to be taken away from them, and because they need to feel special. They can not deny themselves one less pleasure. Having me prepare them unusual dishes makes them feel important. Guenthorn, the lady from Sweden, is a vegetarian. I make her a special meat free lunch and dinner every day, that I serve her but know to have a plate set aside for her after I close the kitchen, while the other guests are at lecture so she can sample the entrees that once bled. That way she gets double attention.

The same people are the ones who pretend that I am invisible when I am working within ear shot while they are having their personal conversations. The things I do hear them discuss does make me wish I could disappear when I hear them. "Why would anyone tell my kids I am in treatment? Why would they make me look like the bad guy? I am a good father and I love my kids. The little bastards don't need to hear this bullshit." This was the man who snuck booze along to the boyscout camping overnighter and they found him in his tent suffering from alcohol poisoning covered in his own filth. "Yeah so my parents didn't know I was using so I hired two strippers for the drive back to collage and brought them to my fraternity party and the cops busted me after I kicked the shit outta this dude that owed me sixty grand in gambling debts." This is was from the forty something year old from Ironton, where sixty g's would buy the entire town.

And there are the pornographic stories I wouldn't even type if I was writing the script to a triple x movie. The lying and the addiction go hand and hand. It's part of the same sickness. A weakness I hate so very much. I cannot call it a disease. It is a choice.

I grew up in an alcoholic family. I am the daughter, the grand daughter, former wife, the sister and aunt of addicts. Do not tell me it is a disease. High blood pressure, cancer and diabetes are chronic illnesses that are past down. Addiction is a cowardly excuse. I really have to question why I work where I do.

Maybe it is the Sunday after church phenomena that helps. Sundays are family visiting days. All afternoon you can see the family's strolling around campus, putting their best sober face forward. It is after services, so they all have their pious attitudes and their best clothes on. They so want to believe their loved one, that they are spending what equals a collage tuition for a months cure will work this time. And the patients do no want to disappoint their family's again. Their born again glow causes my to advert my eyes when meeting any of them of the walk way. It would be different if the illuminations source was real. And if I didn't grudingly wish it was I visiting my family here instead.

By Wednesday night however, my guests are like my own family. I have started to feel empathy for a calibere of people I normally won't think twice about. I have Guenthorn's meal ready for her, plus a side dish of ribs and a rib eye in the back warmer. I get hugs and hand shakes from people I would normally never touch. The Stockholm Syndrome is in full swing for me. I worry for them and wish them well. Some of them I will miss.

"Thank you, for all the foods jo? It was all so wunderful. You took such care gud for me."
"You are so welcome Guenthorn. Take care now ok? Hope you have a good flight home."
"Ja, you too. Thank you again so so much."
"You want me to make you a sandwich for your trip?"

I made her a roast beef of white with a peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat on top of it so no one would see she is a carnivorous. I am and always will be an enabler. It is my choice.

Hard Days Night

I'm on day 397 of my five day work week and I'm tired as an old pig. Pig tired. I do not fall into bed dreaming of my up coming holiday north of the arctic circle, or my impending wedding to the Rock. I don't even dream of an entire day off. My fantasy's are of bathing for pleasure, instead of turning my clothes inside out and hitting myself with some Fabreeze on my way out the door. Of entire meal eaten while sitting down and not yelling, "Kids! Got your instruments in the car-we are late!" Or even what my boys faces look like for that matter. Of reading.

I once a while back was invited into a lovely friends home for a book study with a group of intelligent well read ladies. As our own introductory to the rest of the group, we were asked to introduce ourselves and tell everyone our favorite hobbies. Seams as there is an abundance of gardening crafters out there. I simply said with all honesty, "In my free time, I like to walk around my clean house in my pajamas." I was never invited back. The ladies just couldn't wrap their bookish minds around how seldom I had any free time.

In two days I will have a day off. Which will be wonderful as I have hair to do, baseball, tutor conference, swim lessens, the cooking competition to plan and shop for the catering.

Anyone got a line on free time?

Don't Let the Door Hit Ya....

A going away party was held today at my job for a coworker, Joysucker. It was no improptu gathering, it had been planned for some time. Basically from the day he was hired, we have awaited this event honoring the Sucker masters exit.

Our conga line was short, around the bakers area, circling the large floor mixer you could often find him leaning liturgically against. The pantomime winner was the chef who reinacted a love scene involving the departee's clip board. (The same clip board that had mysteriously kept disappearing. Our manager would hide it for our amusement, causing Sucker much chagrin. The boy would walk in circles asking everyone in a lost and useless way the rest of the day, "Have you seen my clip board? Where is my clip board?") Both sets of "misplaced" storage room keys also aparated. Come to find out they weren't in the dumpster after all. Although we did all have a good chuckle at the thought of him diving in and rummaging around for them, and the angry letter he had written concerning our irresponsibility. Sceond place whent to the server who answered the main department phone in his familair sounding lisp, "Thiss iss Thoy Suckerss ofis, Thoy Suckerss thpeeking."

After a lovely refreshment of the chocolate cake Sucker so despised,and whined often about, we played a quick game of pinota. We took turns covering our eyes with his crusty white hat and swinging an oversized spatula at his company name tag. The winner got to whirl the plastic picture id through the industrial food processor. A good time was had by all. We walked back to work after break whipping the happy tears from the corner of our eyes still singing "For he's a horny gross sucker, for he's a horny gross sucker, for he's a horny gross suckerr, that nobody can deny", under our breath.

Of course he wasn't there, his last day was a while back. That's what made the party.

Her Beauty

She is all that. She is all that simply because she has never been told otherwise.

At an early age her family told her she was magnificent. They told her she was beautiful and smart. The world was hers, to be done with what she wanted. Her confidence was planted deep.

Others, who might not be aware that she is the gatekeeper and keyholder might think of her as ordinary. Mundanely wrapped in an awkwardly spoilt package.

She is the way she is because she never doubted her family one iota. They need a mirror.

Clint Does Dream Therapy

Geologist: The iron range and the banks of the St. Croix forms a basin effect. The silt caused by the erosion brings it all back to you. That is why his name is stuck on your mind.

Me: So, how do I get rid of my obession?

Geologist: Bury him.

Weeast Dakota Car Games

These are games to play in your vehicle while cross country wondering.

1) Where's my finger. One player must sit in the front seat, the other in the back. The places to hide ones finger is limitless. They include in other body parts, things or on a map. Tourist brochures are especially good. "Nope wrong. My pinkie ain't in my ear. Not in the bag of Cheetoes. Or full of Black Hills gold. It is in the "Unexplainable Cosmos Mystery Area." Or is it?"

2) Hit the tumble weed. Ok so the driver tries her best to hit the fast moving dry brush. Others cheer and bet on success.

3) What do I gotta do to make this semi driver honk. Driver must pull along semi and kids do what ever it takes to illicit a honk of the air horn. 32 honks and we where in Rapid City. Truckers where hitting detours.

4) BISON! BISON! Ok there are no set rules to this game. Just yell Bison when ever you want to change the subject or get attention.

5) Wrong Song. Sing any pop song you want from any time era but change the words to cowboy lyrics. "My spurs, my spurs, my lovely little spurs. In the back and in the front. Get you love drunk on the saspirilla. Make you scream ,Make you Scream....."

6) How slow is this Dakotan. These people are over friendly and ask way to many questions. We know half this state is closed down because it is not tourist season. That is why we are here. Stop asking. We are doing our own "Minnesotans Gone Wild", video.

7) What won't these donkeys eat. Sorry you will just have to wait for the picture.

8) WWLIWD? Short for what would Laura Ingals Wilder do.

9) Get Lost. Easily played when driving on closed mountain logging trails, caves, large never ending Cabella's.

10) Name something they don't sell in Wall drug. Clearly labeled radio-active material, defibarators and live animals.

My World

I heard the crash and knew what it was immediately. After the roar, and the heavy thump, I ran into the living room and found my antique globe shattered on the wooden floor. My world in a million irreplaceable shards. So all did all I knew how to do. I followed him in the kitchen screaming like a fish monger's wife. That wasn't enough. My words and my reason and my tears were just not enough. So I took a swing at him. I smacked him full on the back of his head, right where the goose egg from last weekends tumble protruded from the back of his skull. Still not enough. I turned my back on him as to have the last say in the matter. Naturally he chased me. Hit me. Go ahead and hit me. I even curled myself into a tight ball and tucked in my chin making myself a target. Take your best shot at my back, you bastard, I'm not going to run.

But run I did. Sometimes a couple of states can make a world of difference.

It Would of Been Romantic If There Had Been Romance

There was a zing of excitement in the fresh spring air as we drove to our destination. The forty minute drive took only a blink of an eye, our conversation was that good. He played the charming tour guild for me and pointed out to me things I had never noticed much less known about. I wanted the night to last until summer .
During the show, we shared secret jokes and did not even listen to the narrative. I ate off his plate, he drank my wine. We enjoyed sharing our passion. He was the perfect gentleman.
An onlooker confided in me, "You and your husband look like you are having such a good time. It's obvious you too love each other very much." "Yes", I answer, But we are not married. Eric is my friend."

Kickin and Screaming

She fought with the phone company and had her service shut off for a week.

She battled the bulge and lay on her closet floor sobbing when she could not fit into the size 8 jeans. Then she read the tag that read, boys.

She fought the passing of time by Indian leg wressling her kids. Not only did old man time kick her ass but the laws of physics as well.

She fought back the nausea as she cleaned the puppy poo off the carpet and ending up cleaning her bathroom as well.

She fought all common sense and bought her son a trumpet.

She fought the wolf away from her door by working a sixty hour week. Where she also fought authority.

She fought the urge to laugh out loud at her kids spring concert and ended up bawling instead.

She fought with her husband and will no longer call him Goat. I will however call him Goaty Mc Goat Goat, Crusty the Goat. Grizzle Goatypants. Dusty Goat Breath. Or Bill

She fought the urge once again to run off to a far away country but booked tickets to Helsinki in July.

Who, What?

There was an invisible little girl
who cried a crystal clear tear
right in the middle
where her cheek should be
and it evaporated into thin air
so she let out a sob
and cursed herself hard
fustrated because she was voiceless.

Cats and Dogs Living Together

Holy crap. Pigs and monkeys. http://wcco.com/topstories/local_story_050172415.html
This was on the local news just days after I found out the person right before me who had the same procedure, islet cell transplant by injection, instead of sugicaly, died on the operating table. Eight people before me had a transplant, not all were successfull, and none buy the less invasive way I had mine.
I also discovered I am a poster child for the U of M. http://www.diabetesinstitute.org/diabinst/treatmentsdiabetes/islet/stories/lalli.html Please read the home page on that site.
When I had my procedure, my doctor, Dr. Herring told me he was already working on a more advanced cure. I was his baby steps.
I am happy for modern technology. But this type of news upsets me. I don't know what to do with my face.

The Greasemonkeys Daughter

We never did have a new car when I was growing up. Dad was a mechanical engineer, of sorts. My father did not hold a degree. He had barley made it through the eighth grade of a one room Finnish/American school house. Wilmar would come up with bits and pieces off other machinery and design a completely new mechanism. His biggest invention he made most often though, was do.

The automobiles we drove were often made up of miscellaneous parts of cars he would scavenge. Dad was a genius when it came to putting together scraps of machinery and turn them into running machinery. He built tractors, harvesting equipment, and once a prosthesis leg for his war veteran friend. The cars we drove were always a work in the making, and often needed a little help. Mufflers, that if you drove for too long and too fast, would fall off, or stick shifts that would take two hands to maneuver, for instance.

That might be why, when my last jeep was laid to rest, I bulked at the notion of setting foot into a car dealership. In my mind, there was no unfixable automobile. So what if the back end of my wagon was gone, there was another half of an unscathed junker that could be married to my beloved blue jeep. I just couldn't find the man willing to take the time and do it.

On the other hand, in this modern day disposable world there are a trunk load of those willing and eager to sell me a new one. "I don't want a new car", I repeatedly told my husband, who was on his mission of loving provider. "I know how to start a truck with a pick-axe. I can make do with a used model."

Hubby didn't like the idea of me stranded because of car problems , late at night, on the side of the road while he was out of town. I told him I could also protect myself with same pick axe.

For valentines day Hubby bought me a nice shiny new red jeep. It will do. I wonder how he will use the pick axe I bought him. And if in some wreck yard, somewhere, the pieces of my old jeep will make someone else happy.

No Centerfold Here

I did not like it when he took pictures of me. I do not know if it is because the quality of the images, or the timing of the snap shots, but I would cringe when he would procure his Kodak. In all his shots I am turning away, avoiding the lens. When he asked to include the camera in our intimate time, I was surprised. I thought I knew him better than that, or at least he knew me. But when later I discovered his stash of our erotica, I smiled out loud. Every shot was of only my face.

Love Potion # 6,726,587,239

If I were to formulate for you your specific love potion, what would it smells would it consist of? A wafting of pumpkin pie, a hint of cedar and a pinch of Axe body spray? Warm puppy fur, popcorn and a whiff of the beach? A drop of sweat, a sprinkle of cinnamon and a puff of smoke? Money? Does the smell of baby make you warm or just impatient? New car aroma give you tingles or nausea? And what do I package your essence of emotional devotion in? Would you like it in a crystal decanter, empty gin bottle, or would a WD 40 can do? A jeweled box or a zip lock baggy?Let me know soon eh? My personal concoction of fresh paint, curry, leather, fish and hospital antiseptic in a chocolate shell will probably not be requested for duplication this valentines season.

The Mice in My Brain

I'm sorry I haven't written you much lately, but I have been thinking of a lot of things....

Of the fireworks exploding in the dark sky, as we watched through the picture window of the ice shack.

The spoon of justice.

Groupings, clusters, or rows?

South Dakota.

Of the naughty little pair of leather leaderhosen I'll be sporting while serving shinitzle and spagle on Valentines night.

Pearl asking who hit her as I walked her back to the patrol car.

Teaching K2 how to yodel on the ski lift when I surprised him on his birthday and took him skiing instead of school.

Of the invasion of goateed men at work.

Warm ginger snaps.

Of the beauty at http://www.augustlalliflowers.com/

My hatred of car dealerships and salesmen.

My chiropractor with the shoe fetish.

The Citadel pussy.

The song automated Boy by The Dresden Dolls.

Art dot cards.

Men in recliners.

Drive by lawn trollings.

Hopefully lunching in Anoka.

K2 walking out of class the day after he witnessed me walk out of the new jeep transaction.

The class I'll be teaching with Sweatin John.

Why all black pants make my skin itch. Am I allergic to black?

The upcoming strange shenanigans at http://notjustadogandmonkeyshow.blogspot.com/ And can someone please tell him how to post a picture on his profile?


I promise I will try to write and keep you up more often. But you never know.

At Least Good Guys Finish

I wish I had met you sooner
fucked ya up twist you turn you into a train wreck loser
show you the truly dark side of the moon
eat you up baby with my warped spoon
be my freak tweakin for the poon
wear you like a string around my finger
flick off the world with you my little ringer
turn you inside out left out to dry teach you how it feels to cry
ride you hard put away wet
you'd beg for more bitch wanta bet
use you up for my joy ride
shred every once of your masculine pride
strut my welcome mat to trap you for my chew toy
want to taste some candy little boy
run for the hills don't look back
keep me from makin you a burned up hater
your so better off never than later

Pearl Jam

Thank God for silver foxes.

The world needs more sweet little old ladies who drive silver sports cars.

Sharp as tacks pushing centurion who do lunch at their less mobile friends homes.

Thank you Lord for giving them the timing to do their outings while young children and pedestrians are in school.

Great Grannies smart enough to buy wheels with all the necessary deployable air bags.

Wise sun spotted beauties who are nimble enough to maneuver around snow plows.

Blessed be genuine who are able to scan the horizon for road signs, but miss seeing my stand still jeep.

Wizen angles who make it possible for me to have insurance pay for my back rubs and new neck adornment.

Sweeties named Pearl who are too tough to let there paramedic examine her, and worry about my well being.

Heaven sent ladies who will never drive again and keep the more venerable safe.

Nursing home refugees who will make the salesman of my next, even bigger SUV, fall on their knees.

Thank you, for perfect timing.

My Secret Liaison

"Renee", is the name I sprawl on the dust of my window sill as I sigh and lean my forehead against the cool and grimy pane. How I miss my Renee. Our separation has dishearten me. While Renee is cavorting on vacation in the Caribbean surf, I am languishing here in my own filth.

I try not to remember my life before Renee saved me, the dark putrid hole that was my home. She came into my world about the time my first child arrived. She invaded my personal space like a slightly caustic pint sized Mr. Clean. Renee is my cleaning faerie.

My hubby, bless his obliviousness to dirt, has never noticed I have Renee. Nor do I bother to point out this fact. You would think he would have if anything noticed, a reduction in my nag time. My mantra of "take off your boots, take off your boots, pick it up!", is less often uttered from my exasperated overworked lips. How he thinks I manage to clean the entire house on the days I work, plus all the errands thrown in, sans any industrial cleaning fluids, I'll never know. And I flat out don't care. I don't like keeping things from my husband. But it would upset the man greatly if he knew I payed for her services.

Back in the day, I resisted hiring someone to clean my house. That was something that I felt I should have been able to do myself. I come from a strong line of tidy ancestors. Some who would clean the rafters in their attics every spring and the power lines that lead into their homes. Some even had to be medicated to suppress their cleaning hard drive. I can clean, mind you. I just happen to fill my time with other things. But a woman's home is often thought of as a reflection of themselves, so that is when Renee became part, if not a secret part of my family.

"Come home soon", I whisper to myself. I can't find my car keys.

Because a Scientist Said So

Today has been deemed as the years most depressing day. Some scientist hatched up the equation to formulate it as being so. Time of year, weather, self esteem, financial debt and sunlight all factored into his equation. Just when I was feeling really great about marking yet another revaluation around the sun.
You got to fight fire, with fire. My my case, cold with cold. To beat cabin fever, and to also celebrate my son's birthday, I decided to kick the old thermostat down a notch. I found an even colder, smaller and darker place to party. It will be in a fish house up north. Take that, old man winter. We are biting back.
I am pulling the boys out of school, with a couple of friends, for a long weekend in a deluxe sleeper fish house on Mille Lacs. Deluxe means it has beds, a bathroom, and a stove. Mille Lacs is Native American for "Freezes Ass for Fish". Good times. Good times. I am packing cards, movies and lots of food, along with the game hnefatefl. (Viking chess) The biggest surprise will be when the sled dog team I found pulls up in front of our ice shack to surprise my son and his friends with a ride across the frozen tundra.
When I heard the 6 o'clock news that I should just be sobbing or drinking, instead of in my happy little buzz, I picked up the phone and called the resort we will be staying at.
"How much ice do you have on the lake?"
"Twenty-two inches on our bay right now."
Asking if the fish are biting is just redundant.
"Happy Birthday!!", I yelled into the phone before hanging up.

My formula for happy is this,
Pi, or cake for that matter times six, frozen, add goofy infinity minus reason, plus a fraction of adventure.
Maybe we will pee that into the snow and send that scientist a picture of my equation.

The Man Hater Woman Club

So. Storm out of here with your bags packed with out even say good bye, will you? All because you didn't get your way. Too bad I didn't notice until all day after the movie that you left.

You can lead a man to water, but you can't make him think.

How ridiculously childish. Do you think you are punishing me by withholding your grouchy coot like demeanor? I refuse to call you first this time and say,"You are what? you are what?", until you say you are sorry. Ain't gonna happen.

If you build a man a fire, you keep him warm for a night. If you set a man on fire, you keep him warm for the rest of his life.

This is hurting you more than it is me. You are out of town surrounded by strangers. Ponder that one as you deprive yourself from my company. You gotta crawl back sooner or later. After all, the pay check always comes to this address.

Men. You can't live with them, you can't bludgeon them in the back of the head and bury them under the deck in your back yard. Often.

A Waste of Breath

As we lie in bed together, I would snuggle up behind him and wrap my arms around him before whispering a silent "I love you", against his back. He wasn't a very good listener. And I, an even worse talker.

Casting Call

"Ok now, Quinten, Spielberg, I'm ready to do this. Is the talent here?"
"Some are. Not a lot will show up until you send them the script tho, Munkay."
"The time is now boys, now. Who we got to play my hubby? Rock show up yet?"
"He can't audition for you. Not with that restraining order he has against you and all."
"Shut up Q. Shut your pretty mouth. Or I'll make you wish for a face as bad as that gore you use to shock the public with in your flicks."
"Nicholas Cage. Jeff Goldblum?"
" Good but you use them a lot there Spielberg. I think Mel Gibson. John Travolta would be perfect except I hate him. He's fucking nuts. Vain nuts."
"Mel Gibson it is."
Yes, perfect, then he can get Heath Ledger to play is own son. Heath would rock as K1."
"True but Gibson won't work with his own kid."
"Seann William Scott?"
"Ok, that's somewhat of a stretch, K1 does have those beautiful blue eyes and Sean has dark. I dunno if Sean can pull of sensitive. Not after that Duke's garbage."
"If it's looks then it is the original, "Home Alone" kid. Cept him and Michael...and he is now old enough to be K1's dad..."
Ok, so keep that role open ok?"
"K2. K2. Alfred E Newman from mad comic's. Can an animated dude play real?"
"No. I'm thinking Russell Pickering, with all his curls in "Chronicles of Narnia."
"Yes. Perfect. Make him lose the goat nose. Or the guy who played in Spiderman. Six of one..."
"Sis will be played by Annie Lennox. Or Renee Zellwiger."
"I don't think Annie acts."
"Thats good. My sister doesn't sing."
"Who is Colorado sister then?"
"Sally Field. No, Susan Serandon doing Sally Field will play her."
"Um."
"And I want Chis Reeves before his accident to play my brother. Think he can pull off playing an amputee?"
"Um. You need to talk to Travolta's shrink now Munkay."
"My parents are dead, but we need someone to play them none the less. Cross Ingred
Bergman with Jane Fonda and throw in a lot of Jackie O's grace for Mum will you?"
"Yes, I'll call special effects.."
"Dad is John Wayne/David Soul/John Boy Walton. Add Willy Nelsens love of intoxicating beverages."
"What about you Munkay? Who plays you?"
"That monkey from "Every which Way But Lose", available?"
"You do have a kinda Kristin Johnson from Third Rock thing happening."
"I think I'm more Kate Hudson or Bette Middler."
"Ugg boots does not make you Kate Hudson."
"Yeah, but I like rock stars. Lenny Kravitz care to polish my casting couch?"
"Does Mel know you talk like this?"
"Munkay you could use some extra's. Who else would we cast in your life..........

A Boyfriend, a Lover, a Husband, and a Stranger

Our knees touched beneath the table in that dark local bar. His shoulders where bigger than the table that held our beer. The locals were getting wild, happy hour had just begun. One of the regulars, who had coins left over from his brew, fed the jute box. Old country rock poured out and increased the volume of the joint, along with the anticipation in that smoky room. Momentary silence surprised everyone when the song ended, leaving conversations, now able to be heard, dangling in the air, absorbed by ears they were not intended for. As the opening rift to my favorite old Stones song fills the air, he leans in towards me and grabbing my hand, yells. "Dance!" There was no dance floor. There was barely room to squeeze in between tables, but he stood up, and pushed everything he could out of our way to make room. He only had space to move his upper torso to the rhythm as I jumped to the beat. He danced with grace, for such a large man, and would peek shyly from underneath his cowboy hat for my reaction. I threw back my head and laughed with joy as I perspired and bounced. When my girlfriend walked in, he motioned to her, with a nod of his head to join us, but she was unable to weave across the crowded room. So she danced with us from where she was. I remember wishing the music would never end and the endless possibilities, if only we had a dance floor.

I was freezing cold and I was wanting to call it quits, and pack up for the day, when the band struck up. "Dance with me?", I implored him in front of his fair weather friends and began dancing where I without walking to the pit. I knew if he turned his back on me, I would loose him to some buddy, or sale, or simply be forgotten. "C'mon, one dance", I taunted dancing inbetween him and his marks. If he was foolish enough to turn me down, one of his so called cohorts would take me up on it, and I knew his ego would not allow that. "Ok, ok, let me find someone to watch my stuff." I followed him into the front of the band, and tried to dance with him. He did not look at me once. He faced the band and jerked his body in an ungainly manner as ifhe were an epileptic trying to strike a wressling pose. When I danced in front of him, back into his line of vision, he turned away again, to look to see who might else be in the crowd. By that time, I was so embarrassed by his dicombobulated movements, it did not bother me a bit to be ignored by this man to was so intent on seeing who was watching him. He never noticed me slip away into the crowd. I was wishing no one thought I was his partner, I knew I would never be warm with him.

The ball room was lit with holiday sparkle and my heels along with my boredom were killing me. We were having yet another conversation on a subject I knew nothing off, with some faceless suits and their partners, when the orchestra switched from classical to dance. Our group disapates, some to the bar, but most to the dance floor. "Dance with me?" I beg him, heading him off as I know he is heading to a table. "No, I want to sit down." "Please dance with me?", I try one more time without shame. "Come one buddy, get out there on the floor." I am saved by one of his associates who sees how bad I want to dance, but understands how inappropriate it would be to ask me himself. Once on the floor he closes his eyes, to better concentrate on getting his own dance moves right, shutting me out to dance by myself. So I study him, knowing he is self conscious and wanting to make him more so. As I watch him, taking his measured and timed steps, I wonder how much fun he could be, if he were to cut the corporate marionette strings that choreograph his footwork.

It is late and I don't want to be there. I put in my face time, made my appearance with the girls and am ready to go home. It is now to loud and dark in the club to hold anything close to a conversation and the everyone here is at the stage where they are vieing for attention by trying to be the funniest and wildest in the place. I am done, and push back my chair from the table and stand, planning on yelling my goodnights and running off before any of them can protest my leaving, and there he is, standing at my elbow. "Will you dance with me?" he asks. Surprised, I think what the heck, as he leads me by the hand to the floor. We dance together easily, as if we had both done this all our lives. When the crowd became thick on the dance floor, he simply placed one of his hands on my waist to keep us in synch without any interference. His touch was not needed but apreaciated. I do not know what I thought during that dance, I only felt apart of warm perfection in union.

Or if Hell Just Up and Froze Over

I could like him, I think,

If he just wasn't so damn annoying.
Or he knew what he was doing.
All he would have to do is just shut up.
Or if he weren't such a know it all.
Or a pervert for that matter.
Maybe if he was even slightly attractive.
Or had some money.
And ambition.
Probley if he were in a debilitating car wreck that left him comatose.
For sure if he moved to a third world country to build homes for orphans.
Possibly if he got a good raucous alien probing.
Or if the sewage being dumped from an over head jet smothered him.
And if he fell down and the pigs ate him.
Or if he tripped on his own tongue and ripped it out and bled to death while panting over the skirts.
Or donated his heart to an ailing orangutan.
And if he spontaneously combusted and left nothing but a bad smell.

Then, maybe, I might like him.
But until then, I don't. And probley never will.

Year End Top Ten

Ten things of no significant value that I have compiled into a list, just because I like lists. Do with them what you will.

10- How many fingers I still have. So what if one is just a tad bit shorter?

9-The number of times I mailed myself to Hollywood, California, in care of The Rock.

8- The number of times someone in my family has been in an emergency ward this year. The reasons follow. 1- collar bone 2-wrist 3-foot 4-thing with k2 that was so embarrassing that I promised I would never tell 5-finger 6-dehydration(see number 9 above) 7 and 8-ham string and neck, two family members, inexperienced at leg wrestling

7-Number of family member that either aren't human or are imaginary.

6- Why is six afraid of seven? Seven eight nine!

5-The number of hours spent yesterday trying to erect a winter tent to sleep in.

4-How many times my hubby moved out on me.

3- Number of favorite new swear words I've made up while on Christmas vacation. They are: Grunion Blut, Dill Wad, and Fole. Now go wash your eyes out for reading them.

2-The number of pounds I've lost between Thanksgiving and New Year.

1- The one best present received this year according to my kids, super sized package of toilet paper. It is big enough to sit on and use as a sled on our carpeted stairs. I didn't even have to wrap it.

Happy New Year!

Fill Out the Form

"Ms...Munkay?"
"Yes! That's me!"
"Step into my office, please."
"Yes! Good! I'm so excited to be here."
"You are? That's good. I'm Mr. Stick Opmibutt."
"Mr. Opmibutt, how soon till I get my new life?"
"This is an employment agency."
"Yes, same difference really. New title, new role, new life. How fast can I trade mine in?"
"Umm, lets have a look at your resume you have filled out here...You never bothered to complete it, Ms. Munkay."
"Yes, I had every intention to but my attention deficit kicked in and I was forced to rearrange your office while you made me wait."
"You rearranged my furniture without asking me??"
"Don't forget painting, it needed some color."
"How long where you sitting out there...Did you really..."
"No- no, only in my mind, it looks much better in there now."
"Ummm, mm, ok, so you are an interior designer?"
"Well, no. Doing that actual manual labor bores me but, hey, that's not what I want to do, what else you got for me?"
"Are you currently employed?"
""Yes, I'm ployed."
"Ployed? Ms. Munkay?"
"Yes, I cut things for a living."
"You cut things?"
"Yes. Cut and burn. Chop chop. Sizzle. Way too sterile environment for me really. I want to be someone else awhile."
"What do you want to be?"
"Something more edgy. Thrilling even. And glamorous. Oh bring on the glamour. Glam me up Mr Opmibutt."
"Got any examples then do you?"
"Opera singer. My heart longs for musical drama."
"Are you a trained singer?"
"Oh hell no. But for a good night gig, with a wardrobe and the right makeup.."
"Can you sing at all?"
"And the proper lighting, I even own my own helmet with horns.."
"No! Munkay, you cannot fake true musical talent!"
"Is it the weight thing? It's the weight thing isn't it! I can gain weight you know.."
"Ms, Munkay, please. How about something you have some experience in."
Blank look.
"Any ideas from your past work history?"
"No, I don't want to do any of that. That is why I am here.
"Your resume says your first job was a cabin girl/waitress."
"Yes, I moved out at the age of fourteen to live at a fishing resort for a season."
"How about that? Would you like to do that again? Learn anything you could use now?"
"I made less than minimum wage. The cost of the cabin they rented me and my meals ate up my paltry paycheck. I did learn, however, I could pass as a much older girl out at the resorts and buy alcohol, which I did make a profit off by selling to other minors."
"Ok, well that was a start, but did you learn anything legal."
"Yes! When the feds come, say, " I am only behind the bar here to wash the glasses, I never serve the devil drink.."
"Munkay!"
"Ok ok. Any one touches me and I run get Gary Boggs off the launch..."
"Hermm. Maybe we try a different approach. "What kind of education did you receive?"
"Please, Mr. Opmibutt, I didn't finish filling out your form. Think I would ever finish any graduate plan? My last credit class I pulled an A on, which brought my GPA up to 4.o. Perfect time to quite."
"That's some screwy reasoning there Munkay."
"Works for me. Keeps me number one. In my book."
"What else. What other experience can we draw from? Oh I see here, you once danced for money?"
Blink
"You danced for money, did you?"
Blink Blink
"You made enough to buy a car?"
Stare
"You do have some stage experience then!"
"That was a long time ago. I'm not even sure, if it was me, I mean. It was my evil twin. Really. And it was much more a shake than a dance. And we are only talking about a Toyota..."
"You have any skills that are untapped? Any hidden talents?
"ANCHOR BOLTS!"
"Excuse me?"
"Anchor bolts!! I can set up a theatolight laser beam to check the corordinates of a location. Give me a blue print and a set degree and I can tell you if your building is on the nuts! And I can talk the lingo."
"So you can do survey and layout?"
"I can snap a line and shoot a target You don't want any sky scraper planned on what I tell you, mind, but I can tell you if your footings are off."
"There you go Munkay. Off to the survey company office."
"No. Not so fast. I can't stand still out in the cold Especially without a bathroom. And where is the glamour?"
"What else you got? Talent wise?"
"I'm a killer tetherball player. I can decapitate you if one of my serves."
"Munkay. Get serious."
"Knock your head off from here right now. Boom!"
"Any office skills?"
"I worked in an office for two years!"
"How many works per minute? Can you spread sheet and Word?"
"Oh hell no, I type with two fingers."
"How did you last two years in an office?"
"The boss said I knew how to sit a good lap."
"Your boss was a pervert."
"Yes, that's what I told him when I married him. Too bad he fired me after I redecorated his office so nice.."
"You are married. With children?"
"Yes."
"Then you must have some marketable skills that comes with being a parent, I'd assume?"
"Yes, I can drive a stick, while eating an ice cream cone, and talk on the phone, all at the same time, and still be able to do a reach around slap upside the head as needed. Are you thinking taxi driver? I'm not doing taxiing, unless we go where I want. Thats the standing rule now. That and when I'm behind the wheel, we listen to what I want. Period."
"I'm scared to ask, but do you have any other usable skills or talents?"
"I was an antique dealer for a spell."
"How was that then?"
"Oh the money! If I had all the money I spent on crap, well I could furnish my house with piles money instead of crap."
"Now you are exaggerating are you not?"
"A natzi flag, Mr. Opmibutt. What was I going to do with that?"
"Why would you buy a natzi flag Munkay, I ask, scared even as the words leave my mouth?"
"Well it was an action wasn't it. And there was only a sick skin head bidding on it. I mean yes, I did bid up the price of the helmet and handbook and other junk he was bidding on so he had to pay a racist arm and a leg for it, but I really didn't think he was going to stop bidding so soon on the flag. That was one expensive fire we roasted our mellos over that night I tell you."
"What else you got Munkay?"
"That flower thing?"
"You have worked with flowers?"
"More like I fought flowers."
"Was that a bad pay for view or reality show?"
"Could have been. "The Ferral Florist." I scraped with everyone, everything. Customers, delivery drivers, equiptment. Had a knock down brawl in the shop with my own sister. That bitch thinks she fired me but I quite, I did. But it was those damn roses that almost killed me. Come to find out, alergic I am."
"Thats a negitive when you can't even work well with others. Anything you can do solo?"
"I can hold really hot things in my mouth."
"You can hold..."
"Yes I can. Stuff can be to hot for my fingers up yet there I am able to taste and eat really hot things."
"And so you could be ah..,a.., mini refridgerator..."
"I'm thinking flame eater in the circa solei or blue mans group pehalps."
"Yes, that's it, perfect! Get right on that! Out of my office, out you go.."
"Can you tell me if they got medical insurance?"
"Now that is not the question for me, but for the union, Munkay."
"If I worked only nights, does that qualify as my day job as long as it is full time?"
"Off you go now, don't let my door catch you in the tail on your way out."

Have a knock-out Christmas! Watch out for killer trees. Love Munkay, K1, Spare Kid, and K2.

Running threw the forrest heavily armed with axes and saws we hunt the elusive wild tree to kill in the spirt of Christmas.....

Why is the question you have to ask when looking at this picture. Why does Wolfy have such a peculair expression on his face? Because he just discovered this ancient mooring pin and he is asking himself that very question? Why would anyone put it all the way up here when the water is all the way down there? Plus there is fear and excitment on his face. Who put it here? Explorers? Immigrents? Vikings? How many years of water errosion caused the mooring pin to be this high and the water level now so far down? Who could be srtong enough to drive it into the rock? Then you got to ask yourself why a parent would let their kid rock climb in only a swim suit. And what is in his other hand? I let him climb dressed like that because he thought he could. Not only did he climb but held my car keys in an old film container incase they dropped into the current below. Why did I name this child Wolfy? It is a strong name and it fits him. Not only do I bieleve this kid can climb mountains but move them as well.

One highly unflattering picture of me in Augest Lalli flowers. Beauty of this is not the flowers, or obviously the exasperated look on my face as I am saying, "The middle button. Right there on top. The big one. Just hold it down till it clicks. Can you see me now? Just push it down." Look close in the cooler doors. The magic is my Sis, who will not let her picture be taken, her soul be stolen, took this picture, and caught herself.

If you have seen "Full Metal Jacket", this is my CHarlene. Like the crazy-assed solder, who named his rifle, Charlene is an extension of me and goes everywhere with me. "I don't get mad, I get stabby!"

"What else. what else? So far our list says, ps2 games, a bow, a sterio, hair gel..."

"What the hell is that? You painted the bottom of some trees?" "No, look closer." Oh, a stick covered in snow?" "NO, it is wild pigs." There ARE no wild pigs that live in snow. There are razor back boars, but they live down in Texas where there is no snow." "There are wild pigs in France, they are used for finding truffles. And I bet there is snow there too." "Chocolate hunting French pigs??? I never heard of it!" "Shut up. I painted a family picture that is what this is. There is the Daddy pig on the left, staying behind looking at his two little piggy's run off." "Your crazy woman, paint me a duck." "Get a job in France, bring me back some chocolate."

"If you give a Munkay a loaded Gun....he will get cold and tired and stare at the ground." (My little huntin chimp's name is Gunny.)

Here is the 127.00 per day anti-rejection drug habit I am on. That is the cost after insurance. There is a reason the highest mortality of transplant receipents occur two years after their surgery. Not because their new organ fail, but because their insurance stops paying the exorbited medical costs. I thought it was ironic when I threw my old medica alert emblem into this picture, it landed in the form of a question mark. How long will my new cells continue to live and will they regenterate, or will something happen that I can no longer afford them?

"I LOVE SUMMERRRRR! SPLASH"

What's wrong here?

One Block

One part of one phase of one section of one project my husband built somewhere. You tell me.I just know by the snow it couldn't be any further south than Oklahoma. Could be the Smithsonian out on D.C. Might be a convention center in Green Bay. Or a Radison in Mpls. Or a hospital. Even a shopping mall plaza somewhere in North America.Chances are it is a casino-anywhere. We have a bizillion pictures like this on the computer. In every one there is a mistake a contractor had made in the picture, and hubby documents them away in his job log program files before sending them on to the architect/owners/lawyers. All in all, just another brick er block in the wall.

K2 following K1 with Sis way up there in the lead paddling for our lives. (This river is 90 feet deep in spots, and we have not yet learned to "right" a tiped kayak. Or swim very well for that matter.) Shortly after I took this picture, my arms fell off from exertion, and drifted down to the pacific ocean.

Some northern Minnesota Boondock town. While driving up to visit my brother in the hospital. The boys, so board on the road trip, spotted the Kraft building in the background. I was forced off the road for the love of macaroni and cheese. Who knew noodles would be kept behind a high security gate? Closest we could get was this gas station, where we bought cheese curls instead and vowed to never again eat mac and cheese.

Having my Scottish Highlander Bull swallow my hand while feeding them marshmello's. Guess which wooly beast is me?

Twelve Days of Pictures

For Christmas I thought I'd give you a picture a day of me and my family since I started writting this. (I know there is thirteen days till Christmas, but I gave myself an extra day, in case I happen to run off or anything. Here is my earnest picture.

Paranoid Fishavior

Today found the boys and I in the local sorting goods megashopalis doing some Christmas browsing. Hubby wants new replacement depth finder for his boat. (Long gone are the days of sticking the trusty oar into the water to measure the waters depth.) We were seriously overwhelmed by the array of technical gadgetry devised to find aqua marine live. Contraptions to tell us water temperature, clarity, movement, time of day, bottom conditions and GPA. We were all suffering from too much technical information overload to make up our minds. That is, until K2 found the fish shaped camera that extends under the side of the boat to actually see the fish underwater on a screen that you mount on your boats council. Much fun was had as the boys and I tried our best fish impersonations for the camera with the attached display screen. The salesman didn't find it nearly so funny when we shoed us away from his pricey fish parafinallia. It was at the check out counter, ware we were buying a simple red and white lure, that K2 looked up and spotted the security camera trained on us. "Mom! What if fish are spying on us!!"
I think he's onto something.

Dancing With Jack Raw

Frost's finger up my ass
bladder trembles threatens to shatter
winter sucks cold shit popsicles

Spark for Hire

I get up in the eveningand I ain't got nothing to sayI come home in the morningI go to bed feeling the same wayI ain't nothing but tiredMan I'm just tired and bored with myselfHey there baby, I could use just a little help

Yes, I remember the very first fire I started. It was such a long long time ago...

You can't start a fireYou can't start a fire without a sparkThis gun's for hireeven if we're just dancing in the dark

"Mom! C'm on Mom! I'm hungry. Let me try". All I wanted was a roasted hot dog. I had it all planned out in my four year old mind. It was the dead of winter and there was a fire crackling in our kitchen's woodburner. I had the hot dog, and a piece of Lincoln Log for a stick. Mum was definite in her no's. Made that morsel of chard meat all the more desirable. "You will burn the house down", was her finale answer. I just waited patiently until she bundled up in her winter clothes to do the out side chores and get the mail. That was an easy if not frightening fire to dispose of. I just threw the flaming toy into the round hole in the stove and covered the evidence with the heavy metal lid. And continued to whine with hunger until dinner.

Message keeps getting clearerradio's on and I'm moving 'round the placeI check my look in the mirrorI wanna change my clothes, my hair, my faceMan I ain't getting nowhereI'm just living in a dump like thisThere's something happening somewherebaby I just know that there is

The next fire was a little larger, I think, although I never really seen it. There we were, in our ninth grade home economics class. It was the last class of the day, right before the Christmas holidays were to begin. My kitchen partners and I had decided to make home made caramel as our final big project. Sherry, Elaine, Mark and I had never made it before, but Sherry had seen it done, so she was in charge. I remember her voice, "Stir! Stir! Stir!", like a rowing cadence she urged. She stressed the importance of stirring the concoction so not to scorch the bottom. We had taken turns stirring for an hour and it still wasn't candy yet. We had no idea it would take us so long to make caramel. As the finale bell of the day approached we formulated our plan. Once the bell rang, my partners would all leave the class to gather their coats and books before boarding the busses. Our lockers were on the third floor. Smiley Nelsons home ec class being on the second floor, I would stay and stir, while the others bring me my things so our caramel could continue to cook the additional fifteen minutes before the busses departed. The bell sounded, and all the students flooded out of the classroom, except myself. Smiley Nelson, our teacher, always snuck out early to have a smoke in the teachers lounge and talk with her husband the guidance counselor, before coming back to lock up her empty classroom. Elaine and Sherry returned with my coat and books, but Mark, who lived in town, and was to stay until the caramel thickened into candy, had ditched us. "Mark said he has curling after school, but he would get Smiley to finish." When we peeked out the classroom door, there was Smiley headed in our direction. I left that wooden spoon right were it was in that bubbling hot syrup and dashed off to my waiting bus without a backwards glance. When we came back from break, the stove was no longer there and the counter next to it had dark brown marks in the disfigured laminate. Smiley, would not explain, for fear of self inditement, what had happened.

You can't start a fireyou can't start a fire without a sparkThis gun's for hireeven if we're just dancing in the dark

Granted, at every kegger there is a bonfire, it's a given. And at Clemenston, we had some doozies. They lasted all night. If someone didn't get lost, or fall in the rapids, it was considered tame. We had partied by the river until the cops showed up, then about twenty or so cars of partyers moved it to the bait store. Another bonfire was light outside, but it was getting cold, that Friday before deer hunting season, so the party was moved inside. I was enjoying *Gonzo's impression of Billy Idol using a pool stick as microphone, and was sad when him and **Fry had to leave at around 3:am to be ready for hunting. Watching the two of them climb into Fry's old low ridding thunderbird, I came up with an idea. Before their car turned on to the highway, I ran out the store and waved them back to where I was standing. Unable to make a u-turn, they simply backed all the way up to where I was. I just happened to be standing near the earlier bon fire, that I assumed to be out, had blazed. "Hey Gonzo! I bet you my "Rebel Yell" tape you don't get a deer at sun up", was my parting wager.
I never did rub it into Gonzo that his opening hunt was unsuccessful. Seams as he and Fry had driven straight to their hunting destination, to catch a few hours of sleep before sun rise and opening hunting. Unfortunately it was not day break that woke them from their drunken slumber, but the sound of shots from their own trunk. Having driven over the embers of the bonfire had caused the underneath of their thunderbird to catch fire, discharging the rifle shells stored in their trunk.


You sit around getting olderthere's a joke here somewhere and it's on meI'll shake this world off my shoulderscome on baby this laugh's on me

The fire in Carrie's basement apartment was by far the scaryest yet for me. We had been up late the night before trying to impress some baser guys. Carrie, being an excellent cook, and me, who literally couldn't even boil water at that time. Carrie had made Asian food. Chow mein and homemade egg rolls. The food had been much better than our company. I just remember the next morning, walking past Carrie, who had just light a cigarette and plunked down on the sofa in front of her soap opera. I went into the kitchen and turned the gas on under her tea kettle. It was when we seen the reflection of flames shooting out of her oil filled wok, on the T.V. screen, that I realized I had lit the burner under her wok instead of the tea kettle by mistake. Squealing, we both rushed into the tiny u shaped kitchen and started pulling open cupboard doors to find either a lid big enough to cover the wok, or some flour to put out the flaming oil. We found neither in our hast. So I grabbed up the wok and planned on running it outside. As I picked it up, and swung around holding it as far away from my body as possible, I set the cotton dish towels and their holders on fire that hung on the cabinet doors. Then the paper towel holder. And the message pad. And the spice wreath. The whole kitchen was fast becoming engulfed. I knew I would not make it out the door and up the stairs, so when I started heading for the sink. Carrie hit me with a phone book to keep me from running water into it and splattering more fire. I had no plans on doing anything so stupid tho, I simply poured the flaming oil down the drain. Thank God for metal pipes. And sugar, that will work almost as good as flour, but leaves an odd smell. Carrie had to light a new cigarette after that, as we were still shaking as we went back to watch "Days of Our Lives."

Stay on the streets of this townand they'll be carving you up alrightThey say you gotta stay hungryhey baby I'm just about starving tonightI'm dying for some actionI'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this bookI need a love reactioncome on now baby gimme just one look

That implosion in the microwave that happened in class down in Austin, well there just should of been something in the syllabus about fires. And I swear that Iranian dude had more to do with it than he can admit.

You can't start a fire sitting round crying over a broken heartThis gun's for hireEven if we'rejust dancing in the darkYou can't start a fire worrying bout your little world falling apartThis guns for hireEven if we're just dancing in the darkEven if we are just dancing in the darkEven if we are just dancing in the darkEven if we are just dancing in the darkHey Baby

Sure, create a dessert called a flaming monastery and some fire is bound to happen.
Red wine reduction sauce, something that needs to boil down to almost nothing and includes alcohal, is just begging for trouble.
But put a grill next to a stack of terry cloth potholders, and come one. Yes the alarms will go off and all the doors will lock and the code orange will blare across the loudspeakers. I know I have a leeway of fifteen seconds to dump the flaming material into the industrial sized trash and contain it in the sensor free freeze. Not that I have, mind you.
***It was dark and the middle of the night as I danced when my house burned to the ground. Hey Baby.


*Gonzo so named after numous hockey accidents that left his nose headed in many diferent directions all at the same time.
**Fry so burned out by partying he was known as just plain Fry.
***I was three hours away. I have witnesses. Ask Clarence.

Dancing With Jack

The winters solace has begun
frost's stinging kisses cause my stiff minuet
snow blind by his touch

My First Meal

Somewhat similar to a death row prisoner planning his last meal, I planed what I would eat as my first repast after my transplant. I had enough time to think of it. I had thirty plus years as an insulin dependent diabetic and eleven and a half months on the waiting list waiting for my pager to sound alerting me that a donor had been found.

Of course I had eaten sugary foods in the interim. When I was human, and ate like I was a normal person, I could never truly enjoy what ever guilt ridden goody I was sneaking. And the after math of being nauseous and tired sucked the joy right out of eating it.

There were times, when my blood sugar was to low, that I had to eat sweets. But it was hard to savor or enjoy any decadence when hypoglycemic. A big glass of orange juice laced with extra sugar was the old stand by staple when my blood sugar bottomed out, and I could no longer function enough to chew. The times I would slip into a diabetic shock, often in the middle of the night, I would return to conscious on my bedroom floor soaked in the sugar thicken juice. My husband just didn't have it in him to inject me with the emergency glycogen shot which would enable my body to release it's own sugar stored in my liver to save my life. Instead, he pour the juice, sometimes by the tablespoon in my mouth. Most of it would land on my neck and in my hair if I was in a grand mal seizure. I was always frightened I would choke to death or drown instead of dyeing of insulin overdose. As much and often as I told him I felt nothing at that point, he could just not poke me with a needle. I, on the other hand just couldn't drink orange juice anymore.

When I realized I would be able to eat normal for the first time in my life, I started making lists. I wanted Snickers bars. Then I changed it to ice cream sundays with brownies. Carmel popcorn. Then I wanted all the wonderful deserts my Mum had to stop baking once I was diagnosed. Strawberry Fluff. Poppy Seed Cake. Wild blueberry pie. All good. I wanted them all. My top choice changed daily. It was boggling for me, I just couldn't make up my mind.

At about month eleven, four week before they were going to take me off the waiting list, I finally had my answer of the one supreme taboo victual. I wanted a tall glass of orange juice, no added sugar.

Unfortunately, after my procedure, I felt so bad, I never wanted to eat again. My dinner tray would come and the nurses would try coaxing me to eat. "Come on Munkay, you gotta eat. You need to feed your new cells." For the first two days, I sent my trays back untouched.

Once I stared to come around and was able to look at the food, I realized I was on an even stricter diet that before. I was well versed in the carb counting and exchange meal plans, but now I was low glycemic diet as well. Good by potatoes, breads and rice. When they brought me chocolate ice cream, I thought it was a cruel joke? "Was this a mistake? There's ice cream on here?"

It's ok now. I will always watch what I eat, as not to tax and overload my new cells. I can eat a piece of cheese cake with less negative consequences than a rice ball. I still can't choke down orange juice, spiked with added guilt or not. Oh well.