Friends of the Earth

My friend Laney and I were out in my back yard the other night enjoying the fine spring weather by the light of fire cast off by burning my pile of old tires.

"Jeese", Laney said, "This is the life."

"Ain't it tho?" I answered. "Slosh some more of that there diesel on the fire now."

"You got it Munkay. While I'm at it I'll get a start on this pile of insulation. This pink stuff makes such pretty rainbow flames."

"Ok, kick some more of those tar shingles off our old shed to turn it up a notch"

"I love the outdoors", Laney proclaimed.

We sat back once again to relax and enjoy the black angle wing plumes billowing out high above our heads reaching it's strangle hold towards the stars.

"Yeah man. I'm all about this county living", I replied, stuck by the sheer wonder of nature as soon as the oily smoke wafted away from my face.

"Too bad we always have to wait till dark to do this. Everyone should be able to enjoy our beautiful black mushroom cloud", Laney admonished tossing her empty beer can into the flames.

"Oh no, my friend. The old ways are gone. All that is left is that we remember the rituals of the past. The traditions of our fathers, and our fathers father, and our fathers fathers fathers
be fore.."

"Alright Already!", Laney shrieked wistfully at me.

"Those were the good times," I continued for the benefit of my kids who had pulled up the car seat next to me and handed us fresh beer.
"Piles of garbage in your yard ment you were affluent, and could afford to buy new stuff see. The bigger your dump, the more you had. Family would get together with their hauling crap. Trucks by the numbers carrying all sorts of junk. You never heard of some kid getting locked in a freezer hell no. We'd burn the shit out of them, or toss them in the lake."

"My dad", Laney's eyes grew bright at the mention of water, leaned forward staring hard at the smoldering goo, "Hell he'd have us kids fill up the back of his old Ford, and then we'd watch him load it on his fishing boat..."

"Laney's dad, fished for a living. Buzzy was one of the last commercial fishermen on Lake of the Woods", I told the boys.

"You remember my dad?", Laney asked me, her eyes glistening from the memories or the gas.

"Course I remember old Buzzy. How did he ever get that name?"

"He used to drive his fishing boat full throttle drunk as a skunk . But we never called him that. He was always just dad. But that is a different story."

"Go on", the boys chorused, eager to hear more.

"Anyway dad would load up everything he couldn't burn on the back of his truck as all us kids watched.."

"How many were in your family Laney?"

"There were thirty-seven of us kids, being Catholic and all. And then my gramma who had the fishing resort always had lots of junk."

"Laney you had a big family", I reminisced. Laney's face had brighten and appeared young again before our very eyes as she continued with her story.

"Us kids would watch my old man, drunk as he could be, toss shit off the side of his boat for hours. Never let us help a once, would he. He was scared one of us would fall in and drown. We all would crowd around him as he talked.."

"He could talk and toss?"

"Talk and toss. "You kids stand back your getting to close to the edge now, eh." And we would answer him, "Close eh?" So he'd know we were all safe."Fish, drink and toss shit, Buzzy could. But he just couldn't swim."

"He was a craftsman, you dad."

"An artisan."

"Eh."

"Eh."

"They state banned commercial fishing to boost the tourism up north."

Laney when all quiet for a while. Then she stood up and grabbed the computer monitor next to her and hoisted it up high above her head before throwing it into the fire where it crashed sending an impressive amount of yellow sparks into the night air.

"That was the shame of losing our God giving right to get rid of our junk. We picked up after our selves didn't we?"

"That we did, Laney, that we did."

"Now there is trash everywhere. Broken glass, don't get me started on graffiti."

"Eeh."

"Eh."

No Comment

I cannot leave comments on all my beloved blogs. At first it didn't bug me, but now it is driving me nuts. I feel so left out. Maybe it is a conspiracy, a conspiracy set up by the man, the government to keep me down. I will not be represst no. Just you wait till on of my kids get home.

Faster Than Dropping An Anvil On My Noggin

Twelve things that have a calming effect on me.

12-Walking wolf like in circles around my bed after a warm beer bong of Jack.
11-A properly fitted straight jacket.
10-Binge eating.
9-Crafting voodoo dolls from my bosses hair.
8-Spooning the UPS man. "ssh, promise to bring me my package from Amazon tomorrow and I'll let you up."
7-Doing the kunilini with my cat.
6- This video,http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrXhLGLO0RA
5-Huffing a Pam/powered sugar cocktail.
4 -The memory of dancing naked in the fountains at St. Petersburg. Not my memory, but a good one none the less.
3-Visualizing the graduation of my youngest offspring. Or him at least sleeping by himself.
2-Immobilizing the behemoth wind chimes hubby crafted and hung under my bedroom window.
1-Having the Rock light that last cigarette.

A Page From Her Biography

"The girl, looking at the components before her, tied back her long blond hair with a ribbon and set her mind to the task before her. The boy standing beside the apron clad girl watched her movements with a hopeful look on his young face. He knew she was about to cook up a storm when he saw her secure her wayward locks tightly into place with the familiar black string."
"Mom. You are not Violet Baudelaire. And stop narrating what you are doing. I'm right here."

Talking out loud helped me to focus on what I was trying to accomplish. I could so easily been distracted by people watching and had too much fun. It was after all, a cooking competition, serious important business in those parts. I had thought I was a shoe in for the little gala, after all I am a professional.

"Baby, when I win the trophy, I'll let you polish it."
"How do you pronounce this dish again Mom?"
"Shut up K2. Go hang out in the bar."

The contest was up in dense Scandinavian country on "the range" in an old bar/hotel. The dish was a Finnish American one I had never tasted and didn't know how to pronounce. Mojakka. But I had read some recipes and came up with my own version. Everyone who I had made taste it had told me I was a sure thing.

"That lady stole my spot. I've gotten that table every year. I'm not sure she is even Finnish, she has red in her hair."

The local cooks pretty much ignored any social niceties with my son and I, intruders that we were. Except to elbow us out of the prime tables, and sneak curious glances at us out of the corners of their eyes. Last years winner did come over to stand back from our Marimecco decorated area and stare disapproving with a disgusted sneer on her face.

"What are you doing?"
"My dish is named, "Finnish Woman Seldom Stew."
"Yeah, I meant what's in it?"
"Crab claws, mussels, shrimp, steamer clams, Finnish fingerling potatoes, leeks, sausage, wine..."
"Oh seafood?"
"Yes.'
"You know I won last year."

We were the only ones to cook our entry right there. The other contestants lugged in their crock pots of pre made mojokka . The judges seriously asked if they were to eat the shells in my dish. The emcee invited all contestants and their family's up on the stage for the award ceremony. I stayed behind and continued to pass out samples of my stew until right before the grand announcement. From the back of the room, I could see my son had positioned himself directly in front of the emcee, looking up at him with a confident expecting look on his grinning mug. Our names were not called. My son's crest fallen face was that of incredulous disbelief. Seeing the look on my son mirrored how I hurt I was feeling, worse than losing the competition. I hope I just hid it better.

"Mom, Did that mean we did not win? How can that be? Are they just saving the grand prise for us?"
"No baby. We just didn't win this one."
"We were pearls before swine!"
"K2- that was not a nice thing to say. Where did you come up with that one?"
"In the bar."

The judges and sponsors send me a nice condolence letter thanking me in participating in the competition and explaining that although my mojakka was good, the judges found it too busy.

I had thought I had really lost when I had seen the disappointed look on my son's face. I never wanted him to think of me in a loser way and hope I never cause that look in any ones eyes. He was not disapointed in me just the judges. But I won in his reaction after our losing.

K2 tied the condolence letter around a handful of fire crackers and set them off in an empty Dinty Moore can with glee.

Thank You Bottom Lip

It is no longer midnight in the kitchen of good and evil. Thanks to my bottom lip. Who would of thought? Not me that's who. Hard work, over time, intelligence and a little dedication, is now out the door. When words turned to push causing shove, I clenched my fists. Good thing I didn't take the swing I was planning. A single tear did my work for me. My boss is on his knees. Goodbye tough girl. Hand me my velvet gloves.

Please.

Everything Changes

The cities just aren't want they used to be. Everyone carries handbags. They have too to go with the designer duds. There was a time when we just carried our drugs around in our baggy cargo pockets without a thought. And it was a hospital after all. Drugs just aren't as much fun as they used to be hey. And the damn pick up truck. In the day, cursing and fist swinging would have been appropriate, all done in an intensely vengeful manner. Someone would have gone to jail, instead were we ended up. Hand bags and pick up trucks. Everything changes.

Fin Up

Because of this video, everyone wants to be a Fin.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDhvRvAKxrA&mode=related&search

Admit it. You were tapping your toes there. If your having a Saint Urtho's day drink right now, you might even dance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxhjGmJM4kU&mode=related&search

And by now you might even get competitive and hoot and twirl.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTTfuJMn1ig&mode=related&search

But do not go overboard and dress in flannel and dude up as a techno cowboy.

Twisted dang Ru ski's want to be Fin.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7InlXuDgLiY&NR

Buy now you can't get this song out of your head right? Even gay Estonian men love this song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=en3CUhhEwOU&mode=related&search

Politicians feel the far away pull of Finnish dance

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=doGs5_MED3w

It the craze in ski clubs and raves

.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5BbBeqBIbQ&NR

But those damn Irish jiggin fools should leave a perfectly good drinkin polka song the hell alone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=082WqavlcqI

Save it for your own sissy flute blown holiday red fools.

Have a happy Irish free St. Urtho's Day. Polka on.

Spiders on Drugs

What I watch when work gets me down.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHzdsFiBbFc

Hello, The Dinning Room Has Foor to Ceiling Windows

As I drive up the long tree lined private drive to work, I come up behind a silver grey van. It is one of the company's generic looking vehicles sans any recognizable logo visible to protect the inhabitants identity. We are all about anonymity here, that is what set us apart from other rehabilitation centers. You never hear of media leeks when the rich and famous stay here. People come here for results, not for publicity. The patents want attention yes, but not publicity. But some don't want to be here. Their addiction is so strong they would rather be doing disgusting and despicable things to continue the slow poisoning of their lives. They are fast suicide failures. The person in the van ahead of me, doesn't want to be here. I can tell by the flailing of limbs and rocking of the vehicle ahead of me, he doesn't want to be here. Today, I don't want to be here.

Sometimes, they just plain run. Addicts have flown in from other countries and bolted at the airport, never to be seen again, and the van comes back empty. Sometimes, I long for empty.

When the patients are first admitted, they are a mess. Some do not even remember the first week here. At that point they are non-identities. I never see them at this point of their recovery. Their food trays of bland easy digestible food is sent straight to their rooms. Their appetite is for drugs not food. Often their trays come back untouched. Except sometimes, their plastic silverware comes back with traces of blood. Sometimes, when I am sweating blood back in my hot kitchen, I dream of a nice quiet room.

They shuffle into the dinning room, after a week in detox, with sour looks on their faces. They are not feeling well yet, their self steam low, and they are angry.
"Good morning. Are you ready for some breakfast?"
"Fuck you."
"You're welcome"
"No. Man. I didn't say thank you. I said fuck you."
"Eggs Florentine?"
"Shit, you dumb bitch, just give me some food."
"Fuck you."

We are supposed to be courteous at all times to our guests. They are sick and trying to get better. But out in the real world I would not put up to being talked to in that manner. That man was there only because he shot his crack dealer and missed. It was probley the first time someone told him to fuck off as she smiled. I think I meant it more than he did.

By week two the patients are on the upswing. Mostly. They are more clear in their thinking. They are faking illness to be taken to the local emergency room for prescription drugs, and rowing boats across the lake to the local bar. Some bribe the teenage servers for a fix. A few try eating paint chips. They have access to metal silverware now, too dull to cut themselves with, but they try anyway. When they whine for painkillers for their fresh scratches, it gives me the urge to jam a fork into a light socket just to show them how. But I don't. I feed them ice cream and wait for their brain freeze to quieten them.

His life was in the shitter, stuck here in rehab. After his thorthed attempt at hanging himself when his shower head broke, as it was designed to do, he took off bare assed naked across the frozen snow covered lake, hoping to let nature take her course and do his dirty work. I do not know who had the privilege of chasing the wet fool off the ice . But we the staff laugh at his folly. We have too. The last successful suicide was one of our own. A grad student who was smart enough to use a deer rifle.

When they reach me at my kitchen, they are through the program and are clean. They are full of gratitude and hope fullness. For them, I am their new mother. I cook for them what comfort foods they crave and listen and listen without bias to their storeys. Sometimes they spend their free time in my kitchen with me. They talk and I chop. I do not give advise unless it concerns nutrition. Often they are scared of live outside rehab. I bring in the want ads and help them find safe places to live. I write down recipes and slip to them when they hug me good bye. A lot of the time, I wish I was the one leaving.

Vote for Munkay

Here is my pre daylights savings time, first sign of spring vote-a-puluza.



What Lisa Doesn't know:
Lisa thinks her silent treatment is hurting the chef, but actually the girl is into the welcome silence for a change. Yes, Lisa will be the first to break. She has never heard of sisu.

Hello, the Dinning Room Has Floor to Ceiling Windows,
His life was in the shitter, stuck here in rehab. After his thorted attempt at hanging himself after the shower head broke, he took off running naked across the snow covered lake, to let nature take her course.

Who's Shooting at Us in a Blizzard?:
The radio out of Manitoba announced the Trans-Canada Highway closed do to the storm. No big deal, the mother thought. We are safe and warm here in the fish shack. They continued to sit and stare down the holes in the twilight trying to see their bobbers as the wind howled with fury across the lake. BAM BAM BAM! "Run Kids!", the panicking woman shrieked. Out the door into the storm the three ran like blind mice. Later as they unwound their tangled lines from around their boots, Mom explained the phenomena of shifting ice.

Wide Awake:
"I don't know.", she sighed in a low voice as she stared out the window at the Wisconsin fields whizzing buy in a blur, "That sounds like a dream. I'm outta dreams."

There you go, vote me up. Winner gets a fresh cheese covered walleye dinner and the first viewing of my Polaroids.

Finnish Exports

Here's something to think about before you take your kids to the mall next December.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzXJdIgAQs8

It's true, I seen it with my own eyes last summer,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Z4OvK3Vn44&mode=related&search

I will never, spit, smoke, curse and drink again.

Fantisey Fantisey

Ten fictional characters I have crushes on:

1- The Sand Man

2-Jack Sparrow

3-Willy-E-Coyote

4-Firenze

5-Willy Wonka

6-Paul Bunyan

7-Lordi

8-The alpha lion on the Taco Bell commercials

9-Mr. Clean

10- Tyler Florence (Tyler is too good to be real)

A Perfect Ten

As we walked through the corridors of the grand old hotel the realtor spoke of how it would be perfect for apartments, six large or ten small. It would cost ten times the asking price to renovate the sagging beauty. As I looked in each of the faded bedrooms, I pictured the babies I could have, or adopt, ten times two would have fit. But it have to located ten yards farther off the road. Looking out the kitchen windows onto the lake, I pictured the restaurant I would start there, if I could fit in ten more parking spaces. The thought of the neglected building housing the handicap ten years prior broke my hear ten times over. Insurance on a bed and breakfast would cost ten times the norm with the docks and unmanned beach. Ten months ago I would have opened a half way house to help the freshly detoxed addicts I care for, back before the ten new grey hairs I've grown a day. Ten years ago, when I had ten times the energy, and no business plan, I would have said, "It's perfect." Instead, I only eyeballed the realtor, who was smart enough not to push me, and thought, "He's OK."

Why I Love My Husband

Ten reasons I love him:

1: The crop circles he secretly mowed in our front yard using a push mower after we watched "Signs".

2: The time our grocery store ran out of my favorite brand of tea. Hubby drove to three other stores to try to find it. He now keeps a minimum of a dozen boxes on hand so I never run out.

3: His understanding of my relationship with the Rock.

4: He does my laundry.

5: The time he had his secretary pick up live sea food and drive it to the airport, then showed up at my place and cooked me dinner with champagne and the movie "Gone with the Wind." We never watched the movie.

6: He brags me up to his friends.

7: The time I told him I was pregnant with our last child and his immediate response was, "Will I have to love it like my own?"

8: He broke down a door to chase a ghost away from me. *

9: The ode's, poems, haiku's and drawings, of me.

10: The middle rows of the Witmans Sampler that he removed, and replaced with another "chocolate" thing before re wrapping and giving me my Valentines.



When we were living in an old nasty trailer after the house burned, hubby fell asleep at one end on the floor in front of the tv. I was sleeping in the bedroom at the other end. Hubby woke up and saw what he thought was me wearing a pink bathrobe standing at the end of the hall looking at him. He called my name when he realized I looked funny and the pink lady turned and moved down the hall to the bedroom. I woke up when Hubby came thundering down the hall and broke open the door without opening it yelling my name and turning on the light. I was not scared but spent the rest of the night calming him down. I believe Hubby saw something, but there is a non paranormal reason. This thought keeps me from the willies.

"If I Die Before I Wake..."

If I kick it in an automobile crash, do not leave flowers or wreaths or heaven forbid, my picture at the accident scene. Once I leave my body, I'm not going to be hanging around to see who shows up with prezies. And I don't want to cause another crash due to galkers. Just speed up to honor me.

Do not write sappy poetry on the anniversary of my pail kicking and print it in the classifieds. I'm going to be too busy to read the want adds where ever I am.

Stop by my house once and a while when my husband is not there to scare him for me. Leave one of my "Monty Python" movies playing in the DVD player. Write messesages in the dust from me. Things like, "Keep on the sunny side of life", from "Life of Brian." Or just plain "Boo".

Write my obituary unplugged. Do not write that I passed peacefully in my sleep, or was taken unexpectedly. "Munkay choked to death on chippies and bean dip in her recliner on Wednesday" will do, or "She bit it while hurling javelins at her neibhor's propane tank on Friday last. Some of us might miss her. Most are relieved."

Funeral. No. A nice dinner. Yes.

Burn me. Burn me immediately. Let no stranger wash me and pump anything into my corpse. No one is going to do my hair when I am gone. Give me too science for experiments, yes. Then burn me. In fact, I may start carrying matches myself in case I feel peckish.

I'm not going to leave a will. If you want something of mine, come right over and get it. Need directions? Just look for the big bon fire.

Susie's Day

I dreaded this day all year. I almost got out of it and all, with my changing my phone number, but being my neighbor she just stopped by, walked into my house and yelled at me for not being assessable. Then again, Susie is like that. She doesn't doesn't notice my boundaries. If my jeep is in my drive way, she will walk in. If she calls and I do not pick up, she will just show up in my house without knocking. "I tried calling and you didn't answer your phone." I like Susie, she is my friend. Sometimes I just don't want to be near Susie. Or anyone. "Oh yes, I heard the phone ring. I just didn't want to answer it." That offends Susie to no end. "But it was ME. Just wanted to see what you are up too." If there is a strange car parked in my driveway for overnight, she wants to know who's it is. But then again, she has hauled my garbage out to the end of my driveway on pickup day. Some time she would come and check on me, before my transplant, to make sure I was not unconcious on the floor.Her kids are grown beasts and her husband a lazy pig, but Susie is a good person.
"You got Wednesday off?", she asks. Why is she bothering to ask, I think, you know my schedule better than I do. "Yes", I replied weekly, knowing full well what she was up too. "Well then, your going with me to celebrate." I was cornered in my own home with no way out. "Susie, I'm in my jammie's here girl, do I look like a party?" "You'll get better. And put on some clothes. Answer your phone when I call you on Wednesday before I come get ya."
Her birthday lunch would be good, that I knew. But she would eat like a girl. A bland girl who avoided spice the way I avoid unnecessary chatter on my few moments to myself, and only ate a minuscule amount of salad and spend the rest of the day complaining of how full she was. And then she would drag me from potpourri shop to candle shop then to the incense store and the bed and bath, boutique to boutique trying her best to make a girl out of me, all the while my head would start to pound and my nose would a suffer few small aneurysms from the mass fake chemical aroma's infused into the decoratives I would have to admire for my friend and the board shop keepers entertainment. All the while I swear to myself and sneak furtive glances at my watch, and promise myself by next year I will make up an excuse not to do this again, and day dream of painting my bathroom light lacier blue or sitting in my chair watching "My life as a dog", while eating cardamon buns and not caring if I zip my jeans ever again.
But every year it is the same. The best part is when she pulls into my yard and I jump out of her truck clutching a gift bag of something stinky and floral I don't want and plan on chucking into the garbage as soon as I get in my door, but turn and chirp, "Hey Susie thanks. Thanks for taking me for a girl day for my birthday." And she answers with her big brown eyes shinning, "Yes, it was fun. Lets do it again next month OK?"
And I won't. Cuse I'm not a nice person, like Susie.

*not actual b-day and even tho it sounded lesbian (due to last post) wasn't

Man Made Lesbian

Ten of the gayest things I've ever done.

1-My use of Aqua Velva on my face instead of pour refiner.

2-Mmman boobs.

3-Wearing the clunky heavy soled clogs I wear to make me look taller.

4-My delight at playing a shepard in the Sunday school nativity play.

5-Polishing the chrome on my Harley instead of my nails.

6-The aerobic club I started that never made it out of the sauna.

7-The time I dressed up as Tommy Lee Jones in "Men in Black" for Halloween and wore my costume for a solid week.

8-The time I woke up in my girlfriends arms, tho I'm pretty certain we didn't really do anything homosexualist as it would of woke up the other girl in the bed.

9-The application I filled out for the bouncer position at "The Gay Nineties."

10-Following two feet behind the gay pride parade to pick up litter. In my clogs and Halloween costume.

So there now, I've confessed. How bout you?

Me Meme

So some woman think it is difficult to list ten positive things, (skills, physical attributes, and strenghs) about themselves. Not me.

1- I am coordinated enough to flush a public toilet while wearing high heels and a short skirt with my foot.

2- I am suave enough to maneuver through an entire cocktail hour/ dinner party while wearing one "water" saturated leather pump with poise.

3-I can hold really hot food in my mouth with out blistering.

4-I am fearless in the kitchen and bedroom. (Bathrooms scare the willies out of me. ssh.)

5- I am excellent at tv watching and always know just when to change the channel.

6-Spanking in public doesn't bother me at all.

7-The Stones wrote, "Little Rock and Roll", about me.

8- I always have bail money.

9- I have enough hair on my head to nest a million rats.

10- I rock ridiculous lists.

Bella

I heard Bella before I saw her.
Her jewels jingles and her scarf swished as she entered the room softly.
Then I smelled her.
Rare flowers and exotic essential oils wafted my nostrils.
She was right beside me at the counter so I turned my head and stared.
Holy shit she was beautiful.
Everything about her screamed money.
But in a soft melodious voice.
Even though the kitchen was closed I made her lunch.
As I would have done if she had spent the last two years of her life in a filthy gutter.
She would only eat salad.
"Keep me on my diet sweet love", Bella implored.
She's going to be a pain in the ass, I thought.
But she would come into the kitchen to hug and kiss me for every meal I made her.
I was sad she was leaving with the sun.
I bent down at the dinner table to whisper in her ear.
"I steamed you a shrimp stuffed filet of sole for dinner."
"And a fat free, sugar free raspberry panna cotta for desert".
Bella threw her arms around me and pulled me close to kiss me.
She stroked my cheek where her lips had been and left her hand there looking in my eyes.
If anyone else had done that I would have squirmed with discomfort.
"Mi amori. You are beautiful."
I think that's what she said in her language.
"I'm taking you home with me to my country, yes?"
"Yes."
I did not have the grace to hesitate.
Bella was bountryless bella.

Sea Monkey Panna Cotta

This is for Rootie, Batty, and Moon. The rest of you, avert your eyes and hum.

1 packet unflavored jello
1 packet freeze dried sea monkey (avalible in back of any comic book or specialtiy food store)
1/2 cup water
3 cups plain yogurt
clear plastic cups

Sprinkle jello powder over water in small sauce pan and let soften, about 5 min. Stir and bring just to a boil, until disolved. Let cool and add sea monkeys and yogurt, mixing well. Pour into plastic cups and chill until set, 2-4 hours. To unmold, dip cup in warm water and invert on dessert plate. You can serve this on a bed of lettuce with a lemon garnish, silmular to salmon mousse. Our gold fish love it. Or you can substitute cloudberry or lingonberry preserves in place of monkeys and garnish with warmed sieved jelly.

Because I make no attempt to change

This week you have not three but for choices to vote on, each of them true. One may however be a book.

Poh Poh Poh Poh and Poh:
Lord. Five of them. Is this a needed thing? If she where awake she might care, or at least put on some clothes. Ok officer, bam. I know the back door's here somewhere...

The New Beautiful:
She is one tall drink of water, plus a hiccup and a beltch to boot. Her awkwardness and shyness resins a painful self conscious echo in me. Kirstin will be my next best friend. She just doesn't know yet how much she will love Kirstin.

Tip O'Neal Speaker of the House
"I am but a poor squirrel trapped in a damn cat's body! And a vegan too. Let me out! Get Morry's people on the phone, I am a trans-creature with feelings! Meaoow!"

Bella:
She bent down to whisper in the sophisticated lady's ear. "Bella mi amour!" was the lady's response as she hugged her and kissed her. "I will take you home with me yes?" "Yes."

There you go. Vote now. First hundred to vote will receive my own personal recipe for sea monkey favored panna cotta and a picture of me lost in a deserted train station somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.
(And Yes Batty, My list does include my international love affairs, if not directly, the repercussions are at least mentioned in numbers 1-9.)

Top Ten List List

My New Years Resolution:
Make a list of the top ten lists I plan to write. (And once again swerve around that tricky paragraphs and punctuation thing.)

10- Top ten times I've had to have a forien object removed from my body.
9- Top ten ways to freak an angry person over the edge.
8- Top ten UFO/paranormal/bigfoot sightings.
7-Top ten get rich quick ideas by crazy er eccentric means.
6- Top ten scary places I've been lost.
5-Top ten times letters of apology I've written, or should have.
4-Top ten ridiculous lies I've told and gotten away with.
3-Top ten non fabric items I've made into clothes.
2-Top ten songs I've written around the word "off".
1-Top ten hot and torrid love affairs with the famous and infamous or just deluted.

Did I mention the Icelandic tried poisoning me with Gravlox? Watch you backs Siggi and Suri. I lived. Happy New Year.

Sobs of Joy

It was the of best time. It was the worst of time. She slammed her jeep door shut and shuffled up the slippery metal side ramp to her that led up her porch after work. A flash of white in the corner of her eye caught her attention, but she knew not to look directly at the wild cat in the shadows to frighten it further off on this dark night as she bent down and put her own dinner in it's plastic container on the porch. Everyone wanted something of her. She could see the warmth of the bright kitchen thought the window shades in the door, and paused, letting out a tired low sigh. Balancing her mail, her knives, and her nearly empty tea cup she reached for the door handle and hoped the calm scene before her would last when she entered the house. The handle would not turn, it was locked from the inside, so she pounded on the door. Then she kicked it. The kids had remembered to lock the door but forgot to turn on the porch light so she had to fumble in the cold dark for the keys hiding spot. Once her numb finger found it she walked back to her door and inserted the key into the knob just in time to have the door yanked open causing her to drop everything she had been vicariously balancing. "MOM'S HOME!", yells her oldest offspring, as he helps her scoop up the soggy mail. "Why didn't open the door for me?", she asks miffed. "I was doin something", is his answer. "The comfey chair, she notices, is pulled up close to the tv on the counter in the corner. "How was your day ?", he askes, ever the peacemaker. She is glad at least there is only one child in the room, when both her kids vie for her attention in the little time they have together and she is frazzled is when it is hard. "What is that smell?" The spaghetti she had made for her children's dinner before she left for work is now a hard black crust emitting a bad odor. At this point, hungry and exhausted she herself feels worse the residue on the bottom of her slow cooker. "Where's your little brother?", she asks, pulling a frozen veggie burger out of her freezer. "I love you mom. Up stairs." She puts the frozen patty on a cookie sheet and walks over to the her top oven and takes of the towel hanging on its door and tries to slide it in. The door will not close. The top lock is busted off. Her older son is back in front of the television already attention focused on it's screen, unaware of the volcano of rage building inside of her. In her mind she is picturing the culprit, worrying the lock handle back and forth, back and forth in his obsessive way until it snaps, and she snaps.
With all the energy of the suppressed anger left over from the stressful day, she bellows, "KID ONE YOU GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!"
As she listens to the sound of his feet run across the floor above her head she is thinking why not. Why not the expensive crystal viking thing on her mantel that she didn't like. Or the china jewerly box that only held bobby pins. Or any of the fradjile foo-foo stuff people seamed to think her liked or needed. Anything but her oven.
"Mom! You are home."
"WHAT THE HELL WHERE YOU THINKING BREAKING MY OVEN?"
He blinks, blue eyes wide, his mouth a perfect little o.
"Did you see the spit that just flew out of your mouth", he answers with a miming action as he distorts his face as if being hit slow motion by a wave of saliva.
When she let out a short laugh, the anxiety disappears from his face, but only to be replaced by a darker anger as she lunges toward him. Passion enciter, that is what he is.
"If you weren't so old, you'd just bend over and use the bottom oven."
Then he ran for his life.

Executive 5-7-5

Big guy only says yes
empty promises just mean nothing
the man has no balls


Time for you to pick this weeks voty vote. Here are your options. Are they real or all whoey? Vote me up!

Rich Bitches Have no Soul:
Sitting at an angle from her, she could not see R.B.'s face but she could not help to hear that pretentiously voice, as she sat in her cape and tried to avoid the look of disgust in her own eyes reflected in the mirror. "No, my husband and I plan on traveling for Christmas. I am thinking of meeting him down in Florida and just relaxing on the beach. That's if we can get someone to watch the kids." "WHAT THE HELL", she blurted out loud before she could stop herself. Leave your kids with a sitter while you sit on a beach without them. This is my holiday, she thought, an hour having my hair tamed. But the thought was interrupted by her cell phone. It was one of her kids, and she was glad to take the call...

Oh Say Can You:
Other men would have left the room. Or change the channel. Made some kind of distraction once the first few strains of the national anthem began playing. But he is not other men. No tears fell when one by one in high school he started attending his fallen friends funerals. He had finished collage early and then joined up. He hadn't cried at the bus station but his first wife and his mother had. Tears were no strangers to his eyes. He had bawled openly when he had lost his sons. He knew that it was expected of him to be sad when he buried the no account father who had deserted him early on, but he couldn't. He couldn't help that anymore than he could stop the patriotic tears from escaping the corners of his eyes as he sat and watched...

Sobs of Joy
He ran as if the devil herself was after him. He strong legs pumped like pistons and his arm tight at his sides, he could feel her hot breath on the back of his neck. He should have not looked back, when for an instant he could no longer smell her sulfur puffs. It was because she was gasping in, to summon her strength for the beller of rage she forced out as his wide terrified eyes met her red filled ones and he went down hard. She was on top of him faster than his own shadow. As he hit the floor his eyes rolled back in his head and his tongue slide the corner of his gaping mouth. He was faking it, and she knew he was sucking her joy out of his murder. The urge indeed her was to smack him as hard as she could, but instead she evilly danced her finger tips under his chin and along his neck until he giggled and got drool on her and she remembered she was mad. When the hardness returned to her face, he threw both his arms around her neck and wrapped his legs around her body, as he kissed as hard as any parasite could. He is the only one who can made her laugh and cry at the same time. He is very lucky to be fast...

A Race Trace Somewhere in Tijuana:
When the girl came to she was slumped against Primo's sour body. What she thought was Cleavers voice had woken her up, jabbering away too loudly in her spinning ear. His Speedy Gonzalez impersonation had gotten much better, she though before attempting to open her crust caked eyes. The she realized the voice was not beside her but all around her. It would be years later, as she stood in front of the steamer, waiting for the green beans to finish cooking, that she would understand the meaning of caliente...

The first fifty voter will win a dog chewed mini fruit cake. Hurry supplies are limited.

The Final Date Ever

She heard his voice through the bathroom wall they shared. She couldn't make out what he was saying. Sometimes, even after all these years, she still had a difficult time understanding her first born.
He repeated himself more slowly when she leaned against his bathroom doorway and he had taken the toothbrush from his mouth. "Will this get me a real job?", he repeted. The yearning sound to his voice echoed back the memory of the little tow haired boy hanging on the side of the pool she had bought him for his exercises. She had found a cheap little medallion at Walmart and had presented it to him for his swimming efforts. It was the first time he had been given an award and was delighted, but all too soon realized it was not real. "Will this help me to get a real metal?", her cherub had asked with the same longing.
The doctors had labeled him with those ugly words she did not want to hear. She would never limit him to them. But yet she had no answer ready for him then, and she didn't have one now. She had no idea how he would ever win a genuine trophy. And now he wanted a job more than anything.
He had been awarded his own real metal alright. On his own. And if it had been left up to her, he never would have gotten it.
She thought of the countless doctor visits to the children's hospital, and all the painful tests and surgeries he had gone through. The nights she would sit outside his bedroom door and listen to him toss around in his bed, vieing to find a comfortable position for his heavy legs to rest, waiting for the sound of velcro as he finally removed his casts to sleep. She would steal in a half hour later, when he was asleep and put them back on his legs and hope they would grow straight and strong as he slept. When the specialists recommended intensified therapy, she had put her own foot down and said no more.
He wasn't wearing his casts when he had listened outside her bedroom in the middle of the night and phoned the emergency unit and he didn't wear his braces when he unlocked the doors before he lead the EMT's to where she lay unconsciously convulsing on her bedroom floor. Without his braces, he had kept his baby brother from throwing himself on top of her, when the paramedic couldn't find her veins. He had even hid the Teddy bear the police officer had tried to distract the baby with, unknowing to the fact that stuffed animals terrified the youngest member of the family. He did even let the dogs bite the lewd officer who just stood watching the naked lady grand mal in front of her terrified kids.
He did however lean on his crutches when he received his heroism award,given to him by the chief of police in front of the entire school. When the news camera showed his spiderman brace, he was down right mad.
That night in the church the young man had worked non stop as he stood in one spot doing the dirty job of separating and scraping plates into the garbage before passing them across to Mrs. Krentz, his old third grade teacher to wash. It was the same mean old bitter woman that had ignored him and pretended he did not exist in her class room and had humiliated and antagonized his little brother. There had been a time when the mother would of gladly killed the old bitty, before she had realized the teacher had died long before, her souless shell just too lazy to fall over. The teenager had just pretended the corpse loading the dish machine to be invisible and had worked much faster than she so he could build a wall of china between them.
She wanted to tell him yes, you will get a job someday. And it will be a hell of a lot better than washing dishes. But she did not have the answer he wanted to hear yet.
"Have a nice time tonight with Mrs. Krentz?", she asked him instead.
"I tried to get her to shake my dirty food covered hand but she wouldn't, just like I planned", he said with a gleam in his eye.

Last Date Ever, The Continuum

She cried all the way back to the church where the other were all ready busy. Partly the tears were for what she was feeling and partly due to the violet rose he had given her, the one that lay on the front seat next to her. She was allergic and would have thoughtlessly tossed it out the window, but he might ask about it later. He knew she would have preferred a red flower, but it was not in him to jousle the other boys in Mrs. Vallene's fifth grade class for one. He was after all, a gentle men. He had the manners test with a passing score that had enabled him, his date, and his mother, to attend the formal luncheon.
Her face was dry by the time she wound her way through the maze of corridor's in the church's addition toward the source of the fish smell emanating from the back. Out of the black dress and into an apron she changed. The heart of the church was busling with activity and she jumped right in to the white haired foam sea of Lutherns. When she had called to volunteer at the Swedish museum's fundraising lutifisk feed, she had expected a plating of maybe one hundred, tops. Not the six hundred they were expecting. But she had help. At any given time she had ten church ladies, and a handful of guys, most who had been cooking longer than her and her son had been alive, at her disposal. She could taste the excitement in the air, as she rolled the meatballs and listened to her crew chatter. The girls were excited, the naughty bads were late.
The naughty bads where the volunteers who did not want to volunteer, but the state demanded social service time from them for there wrong doing. The naughty bads would bring an excited gleam to the old girls eyes, as with them they brought danger into the basement.
When the county bus arrived, bringing a melting pot of flavor into the kitchen of rice pudding, things happened. The ladies grouped closer together around the wash tub of ground meat they were forming into meat balls, purses now cluthched at their elbows. Talk turned from guessing what the crimes of the soon be be help were to the weather. Sharp knives were hidden. Curious glances behind cataracts where stolden.
The non volunteer volunteers were to do the dirty work. The sweet women turned into dictator's. Pots were saved as a penance to scrub. (See that tape there on the bottom? That's my name. Sylvia Swenson. Make sure that kettle gets back to me.) Garbage hauled. (Out to the back dumpster. But don't smoke back there. We had a fire last year.) Potatoes and rutabagas to be peeled. (No, I'm sorry honey. That's the only peeler we have. Dull old thing.) Extention cords unwound and heavy tabled to be set up. (Not too many plugs into one outlet ok?)
Thing were running smoothly, too smoothly up to coffee time. When it was decided they had all earned a break and a cup of coffee, the crew broke out the one secret tradition she was unaware of. Dark hour. Brewing the coffee would blow the fuse. Blowing the fuse would cut the lights in the kitchen and shut down all food production. The non vol's naughty bads would be at the church girls mercy. The girls would seize this time, and a hot cup of coffee to minister to their captive audience.
"Yes I do attend a church Sylvia, just not this one", she told her eager new old friend. "May I have my purse back now? No it is mine there on your arm. Feel inside, you'll find my cell. I need to call my boys."
She felt around the dish shelves to the back area where the only small window was for better phone reception while she made her calls. The volume of her phone was drowned out by a loud and constant crunching sound. It came from the area she had left the young non vol perched on a stool to peel the bin of potatoes. The volunteer was eating the raw potatoes like apples in the dark. She backed away and stood by self in silence and just listened to the multitude of conversations occuring around her.
She, herself had eating a number of potato and bread sandwiches for a meal during her salad years but had never been so hungary as to eat an uncooked potato.
Miraclusly, the power was turn on in time to throw the food in the oven, and dinner was to be served on time.
"Excuse me", she told the nappy haired young mother with the peeler by the window. Can you please help me cut the desersts in the other room?"
She wasn't supposed to feed the volunteers. But she knew spice cake beats a tuber.
Her sons finished up the cleaning.
They all needed each other.

Last Date Ever

She was not nervous until she realized how important the occasion was to him. "What will you be wearing?", he asked her as he knotted his tie. Her eyes regarded him in her mirror with approval as she stood applying her make up. She showed him her dress which he vetoed with a slight nod of his head. He chose for her the little black dress, too formal by her standards for day time, but she thought, ok, why not it would probably be their last date.
When she met him later at the train station, her eyes found his in the crowd immediately. Once catching her glance, he did not look her way again. There was protocol to be followed.
She was to walk past his business car to her own, to share her meal not with him, but with the other matrons. She was uncomfortable with the group of suburbalights who's inane chatter chatter was blander than the meal the harried wait staff served. She would much rather be up front with him. Or at least be a fly on his wall.
Before the trip was over, there would be time with him. After the coffee was served he strolled back to her table. "Hello", is all that he said. Then he leaned over and gave her the softest, sweetest kiss she had ever felt.
Alone in her car she cried with happiness.

Mind Blowing Meat

She sat in the over stuffed chair and staredover her coffee cup at his sleeping form on the floor in front of her. He was still in the same spot she had left him last night in front of the fireplace. She coughed suddenly and tried to mask the sound, and keep the hot liquid she was drinking from exiting through her nose, not wanting to wake him, or the boy who was curled up next to the big man. She wasn't very successful, as she noticed him stir, his face twitch beneath the arm still flung over his eyes. "What day is it?", he asks her. "Wednesday", is her reply as she blows the tea out of her nose. "No, I meant what year?" She pauses, wondering if he is all right, asking such a ridiculous question. "Baby", he continues, "what you did last night..Man, you really know how to treat a man." "Meatloaf. It was just a meatloaf" , she said kicking him with her toe for his teasing. "Now get out of here. You'll be late for work." "But what a meat loaf, you really blew my mind."
He had surprised her by coming home the night before. The dinner she had cooked wasn't even intended for him. It was left over ground meat she found in the bottom of the fridge and had used up not once thinking of him. In fact, it was another guest she had planned the meal around. But she had been with this man now longer than she had been without him. And she took him for granted more than she ever even noticed him.
"Not going in to work today. I have another doctors appointment."
There was a time when she would have planned an elaborate meal for him. Or when she would great him at the door wearing nothing but a smile, there would be no food thought of at all, and they both would of woken up on the floor.
"What are you doing up so early anyway?", he asks. "You still have a couple more hours of dark to rest your eyes before Mr. Sun annoys you."
She does not want to tell him it is worry that keeps sleep from her now.
"My eyes just decided they like to be open now."

Votapooluza

Still riding the media wave from our recent elections, I've decided to turn this blog into a democracy and let you chose my next story with which to shock and awe you. I'll give you three choices for your reading entertainment. Rock the Munkay vote!

*Pearly White dilemma: The young girl sighed and blew the wisps of longish blond hair with frustration as she stood in the registrars office for the umptenth time. Deviously to her advantage they had changed the deadline for registration, she realized with renewed hope. The teeth in her new Marrimecco bag rattled softly as she swing it with ethusiasm over her shoulder after turning in the entrance essay for the dental program, and planned in her mind the current mosaic of Rush Limbaugh she is currently crafting. "I hope I get a bunch with a lot of sliver fillings for his hair", she wished out loud as she stepped back out onto the busy campus.

*Mind Blowing Meat: "Baby, he said his eyes still closed underneath the thick arm flung across his forehead, "what you did last night. Man you blew my mind." She looked at him over the top of her steaming teacup where she sat looking down at him on the floor at the place he had crashed after the night before. "Meatloaf", she answered, "I just used a meatloaf. Get up. I'm kicking you out."

International Kara Coup: The federal agent looked around the little inconspicuous specialties shop in the north west metro in amazement. "I want every pixel, every memory chip and every gigabyte, every black and white or color image, if the deviant was so brash, accounted for or heads will roll. Do you hear me?", the meticusly dressed plain clothes man barked to his henchmen. "YES SIR", was the corused answer as the backs continued to carry out scanners and printers. He was seething on the inside as he watched the men carry out his orders with military precision while he wondered how the suspect had eluded his grasp yet again. "Boss", the voice of his assistant sounded in his ear, "your man was just spotted escaping the perimeter in a canoe." "Stay on him, I'll be right there." Now maybe he would find out the reason this mastermind was exporting all of Iceland's mojo hidden in the technology now being loaded for evidence in the fleet of waiting trucks. "Out of my way cat", he kicked at the surprising healthly looking feral that was blocking his car door.

Volunteer Friend

I'm sorry I won't have time any more to write. I'm going to be hanging out with all my new friends. The are a bunch of nice, conciderate people who tiraided me with phone calls in the past couple of weeks worrying about my civic responsibility. I now have all their phone numbers on my caller ID and plan on returning each and every call. I will, however wait until I have my kids in bed late late tonight so not to interrupt any more of my family time. The losers party's I will console, like the true buddy I am and ask questions like, "So how's it feel now there in on the bottom? Waste much time and money did ya?" Maybe I'll ask a couple of surveys myself. "Rate how sucky you feel, little crappy, moderately enh, or sharp poke in the eye." The winners of course I will barrage with hoots and cheers and beg them to come out celebrating with me. Maybe we will get together and build a nice effergy of the loser party symbol out of political signs or just a nice collage from the flyers. Whatever the turnout, I don't care. It is my social life that benefits in the long run.

Three Huts North of Rovaniemi

I sat in the yeti with my legs crossed polishing off the rye pancakes and wishing for more. More pancakes. More heat. More bathrooms. More words.

We had been in the rental car since back in Rovaniemi, where all forms of public transportation, and most signs of civilization ended. My family couldn't understand why I had wanted to continue on north and I had no solid reason. I just knew there had to be something good farther ahead. I was beginning to feel down because I did not want to disappoint them. My sister drove and I read out loud to the boys as we all acted as elk spotters when the pesky creatures came trotting out of the forests in groups to cross the road ahead of us.

The others had left me behind to find facilities as I sat and ate the delicious crepe type pancakes made with cloudberrys and cream and squirmed on my seat while I took in my surroundings. It was an unheated gift shop /cafe of sorts on the side of the road north of no where and I studied the leather drums and reindeer boots and carved wooden cups as I chewed. At one point I took my plate off the birch table and placed it in my lap for warmth. The proprietor, who spoke no English, sat stroking his Husky and trying not to be too obvious that he was studying me. He reminded me of one the the troll dolls that lined the shelves and made me uneasy. I can only imagine what I looked like to him, underdressed, shivering and unable to sit still as I wolfed down my food. I turned my eyes from the baskets hanging on a stand to the leather sheaved reindeer knives and farther up to the gigantic wooden mushroom on the top of the display. "That's some wild mushrooms they have here", I said to myself. "Long. Must be some kind of enoki." Then I realized with a blush that I was staring at an enormous birch penis.

And then I looked back to the troll who was openly staring at me and stroking his dog hard.

I ran out of there still chewing never wiping the cream from the corners of my mouth in search of my family who had gone on ahead to the next shack in the grouping of three that made up this stop.

The next one was run by a lovely young girl who sold no wooden phalis in her hut. I had seen penis magnets, and charms and bookends, and everything else you could possibly make using that shape openly displayed across Finland. At the Santa Claus village on the north pole my youngest son picked up a beautiful bottle opener only to find the decorative end to be yet another dick. I bought the first hand made wool cardigan I found in the second hut. I would of stayed and talked to her had my bladder not been on the verge of embarrassing me. "Have the reindeer been a problem for you on the road?", she tenitivly asked me in broken English as I made her only purchase for the day, maybe the week. "No, I answered, "Only a million caribou." And she smiled and pointed me to the last building when I asked to use the restroom.

Back in the car on the road again after using the outhouse, when my belly was full and I was warm I turned to my sister and said, "That was some wood that guy had back there, wasn't it?"
She rolled her eyes and looked in the rearview at the kids sitting in the back seat eagerly waiting for me to continue reading Lemony Snickett. "Just keep your eyes peeled for deer will ya?"

I learned three things that day in those huts. Dicks shaped like fungus can be considered sacred or lucky like a four leaf cover or a cross. Nordic reindeer can be as big as caribou. "Most people opinions aren't worth a pinch of(outhouse) shit."

It was one of the high points of the trip, looking back.

*one of my Finnish fathers quotes

Excuse Me

I will now share with you my time tested alibi's to get you out of a pinch. Use them sparingly and only under extreme duress for future your own credibility. Trust me, I lie.

When caught spending an inappropriate amount of money on foolish novelties:

Break into song while still holding shopping bags if possible. Robert Palmers, "She's so fine there's no telling where the money went.." Dance while singing to further draw attention away from new unneeded items. If this does not appear to be working switch Palmer songs to "Addicted to Love." Take your clothes off.

When invited to a celebration or party you really don't want to go to:

Send back the RSVP card with this sentence written on it, "Sorry, just not interested." This actually happened to a co worker when she invited a distant relative to her wedding. I'm not sure if that was the must honest or most hurtful thing, but it worked and there was no lame excuse used.

When hit up for money:

Answer, "Seamonkeys got my money." People will think you are too flaky to have money to barrow. Got this one from K2 when his bud tried to con him out of his allowance.

When Jehovah Witnesses appear on your door:

Lean against door frame and listen to them for the first ten seconds. Interrupt them by ruffling your hand through your tousled hair and yawn saying, "I'm sorry I really can't seam to pay attention. Yawn again. I was up late last night with my ritual sacrificing and I just need my shut eye you know?"


How to get out of work:

Call in from a noisy area like the side of the road or the middle of a car wash. "It ddoesn't look like I'm going to make it in today. Hello? Boss can you hear-click(hang up). Next day do not make eye contact with employer. If directly asked what happened, sigh, look down and answer,"I just can't bring myself to talk about it yet." Sigh again and turn and walk away. If possible have a friend pick you up from work. Shake slightly when you hear loud noises and tremple when you drink your coffee.

When asked to dance with someone you do not care to dance with, answer:

"Sorry not right now. I got the vapors." Of course this only works with the dim wits who do not know that a vapor is gas. I used to use this excuse with my hubby all the time till he found out a vary was a fart. Now he just tells me to get my stinky ass to work.

When the NRA calls asking for your husband wanting a donation:

Reply in a shaky voice, "My husband? You want to talk to my husband? He's dead. He died in a hand gun accident." If you are surpressing laughter it sounds like weeping and they will not call you again.

How to get out of having sex:

Don't be silly. Why would you not want to have sex?

How to get out of doing just about anything:

Say, "I got woman problems." Do not blame pms or aunt flo. Those excuses are just way too over done. Just say "Woman problems." They won't want to hear no more and will walk off.

How to get out of giving a job recommendation:

Give a recommendation just choose your words carefully. "I think you would be really lucky if you got Elmo to work for you." See you just very nicely called your coworker Elmo a slacker. Elmo, infact, inspired me for this idea.

How to get out of being caught in the act of badness:

Once again you must pull a double double and stick to it to the end. "What? I'm not using your fillet knife. Who are you going trust, Me or your old lying eyes?" vehemently denies wrong doing.

Getting away with doing what you want:

"I get soo few pleasures out of life." It helps if you look like you are actually appear to be doing something productive at the time. "I mean, I have the house cleaned. I have a job. I've taught the kids to take care of themselves. (Pretent at this point to be cleaning off cumputer screen while in fact booking tickets.) I should be able to go to Las Vegas once in my life and not be the last person on earth to see it." Remember the key phrase, "So few pleasures." Add it to any small accomplishments you have ever done. Do not bring up the fact you last week spent your life savings on sea monkeys or Robert Palmer cd's.

When people ride you about not writing:

Run off to a different country or state. Design a restaurant. Make 14 different recipes for cloudberry panna cotta. Sit in your basement full of pretween boys watching horror movings and forien films. Write down long quotes for your gaming biz friend then loose them. Poke your best guy friend in the back with a stick. Think up new names for a busniess. But answer, "I been busy."

And Me Without My Rosary Beads

Forgive me, you may think it is a sin:

I live in Minnesota, birth place of Bob Dylan, yet I know not one Dylan song. I know he has a huge following but I've been busy. As my penance, I will call him dad when I marry Jacob, and he can sing at our wedding.

I don't care a hoot about the oscars. Wouldn't bother me a bit if no one won anything and they all wore semi recycled garbage bags instead of designer duds. To make up for this, I don't care about the emmeys or the grammys either. Or any celebrity for that matter.

I have not slept with my husband in nine years. Oh we do have our fun time but I draw the line at sleeping with him. The man has snored himself awake and could accidentally crush small villages in his slumber. He is capable of holding intellectual conversations when he wakes up hourly and expects me to answer appropriately instead of yelling,"Shut the hell up. I do not know where the house taxes are." I would get a better nights sleep in the food processor.

I don't care if my kid never uses a pencil in class again, so stop sending me home notes in your athoritative red pen, Ms. Caulkins. It makes me feel good he writes in ink using a permanent attitude. And then re writes it. And writes it again. Because he can't erase, his handwriting is improving ever so much. I do feel slightly guilty about the names he labels you with . Kinda.

In general I think all Britons are self inflated unattractive rude twits. But I have a thing for chef Gordon Ramsey. But if he ever came into my kitchen, I'd get so nervous, I'd wack one of my own fingers off to get away from him.

I hate the color purple. When I was a little girl, I'd always take my purple color crayon out of my box of eight before the school year began and bury it in my mothers flower garden. Keep all concord grape flavored stuff away from me. I can do green grapes, red onion and cabbage as long as you do not refer to them being purple. If I have to stay in a purple room for any period of time I become aggravated. I have zero purple pride. Mauve I consider ify.

I clean before my maid gets here. And by clean, I mean I shove all my garbage and dirty clothes into the boys bathroom. Dirty little pigs.

I have this fantasy involving a certain club downtown, my boss, Pearl Jam, finger food, and that black leather thing in my closet. I'd confess more but it's ugly.

I feel little a sympathy for the substance abusers I mother at my work. But it is the damn staff I hate. The ones who will not acknowledge me, and make my job more difficult, want special attention just to come across as caring individuals to their patients. Till they want a free meal. Then they turn into food whores.

I have never been in the boundary waters.

I'm sorry I call my husband "Old Goat". I will only refer to him as any of the following, Goat. Goaty Mc Goat Goat. Crusty the Goat Fart. Old as the Hills Goat. Goats R You. Gizzle Goatypants. Goatpie Grizzle Crust. Goatbait Dust Breath. Bill.

I love K1 more but K2 is my favorite.

When the cops pull me over for speeding and I apologize, I am not the least bit sorry. I am just sorry that caught me and I gotta pay.

I am not sorry I told my kids I was raised by wolves on the Canadian border. It was so much fun to tell them of my survival techniques and see that scared look in their eyes.

Back when my hubby would leave a LOADED shot gun in our barn to hunt ducks that flew over our pasture on the weekends it really ticked me off. He never shot a duck the whole time he left that stinkin gun out there. So when my friend Cadilack Cliff came by and asked if I wanted a couple ducks he had just shot I said yes. I then whent out to the barn and fired off the shotgun into the air. When I called my hubby and told him I got two ducks and only fired one time with his gun, he never left a loaded weapon laying around again. I'll tell him the whole story one day, just not yet.

I have never liked U2. But then again, I don't like River Dance either.

Kim Jong-Il is way too goofy looking to be a serious hazard. Somebody plant a bomb under him please.

My husband's ugly throphy musky he had mounted that now resides out in our pole barn was never involved in an "accident." The damage was caused by me and a hatchet. But I was really really mad at the time. I wish I could remember what I was mad about as it must have been good.

Whenever I see Elaine, the spiritual consular heading toward my kitchen with her organic eggs that she wants me to make special for her while at the same time cooking for sixty other dinners, or when she asks me to separated the broccoli and cauliflower veggies so no cauliflower touches her plate, I smile real big and think of her toothbrush holder. She, on occasion, has left her vibrator behind in her room, when staying overnight and had the nerve to go to the housekeeping lost and found and claimed it was her toothbrush holder. Brush your teeth a little more often there Elaine, would ya, and just leave me alone.

I called Ms. Hugaprick er Huminick a bad name when she pestered me about my keyboarding skills back in school. She was nothin but right.

Kyle's Left Arm

I lay there in bed all glowing knowing I had just experienced the best sex of my life. I opened my eyes after recovering from my estisey all happy knowing every thing was right in the world and having never felt so alive when I realized his big rock hard arm was still under my head. So I turned my head to look at him and realized it was Kyle's arm. Kyle's arm. I do not even know his last name. And I'm not sure what he does at work. It just seamed so right at the time, so natural that our karma libido paridiams where a lined as one. Funny I had never even thought of him in a physical way. I mean he is really good looking and everything. But he is just Kyle, you know what I mean?
Ever since that time I find my self gravitating towards him. I make up excuses to be near him. I need him to share a private moment or a knowing smile. It just gives me a little warm feeling when ever he comes around. And when he is near I never have anything much to say. I just blush a lot. I wonder if he ever had a dream like that about me.

Wish List

I wish...


I could have cat's whiskers to gage if I could fit into tight spaces instead of gynourmus hips that just bang into things and knock them over.

That Cathy Watsen had beat right back in the fourth grade when she said women get their period once for a month. (That chicks dad was in the service, she traveled and knew stuff.)

I had a cops red bubble light that I could carry in my jeep and throw on top of my hood when ever needed to pull over idiots and club them as needed.

The desert had zero calories and veggies were packed with them buggers.

That my Hubby would have been in our pole barn unloading material out of the back of his truck in his tighty whities years ago when the Jahova's first decided to stop and witness.

That I had the guts just to shave my head bald and not worry about stubble or scalp shine.

That my brother in law, the professional painter, had finished staining my house before he fell and dripped the wrong color all over my porch roof. Would of saved me saying, "Hmm, was it too hard to bring back our own equiptment for this job? How the hell did you expect me too carry you down the latter with a broken ankle?" Ok I only spoke it in my head to him but I shouldn't of even had to do that.

My mom could have seen my transplant succeed. She always told me there would be a cure. Mine just took 30 years.

That I had answered K1 correctly when he asked me when he was little, if it was me he heard down stairs, instead of jokingly answering, "NO I'M A BIG HAIRY MONSTER!", in a big hairy monster voice, which warped him somewhat, causing him to follow me from room to room for the next four years.

I had a secret room that was a four sided enclosed trampoline so I could bounce around like crazy to my hearts content.

One time I just rode my bike fast enough that my feet fluttered in the breeze behind me as I hung on for dear life.

Eatting chocolate made you smarter.

That I could develop unburnable hands as a super power illiminating my need for pot holders or ointment.

Everyone just understood the greater good is keeping me happy.

That my Hubby still wrote me romantic love letters instead of the ones he writes now..."I love to have the precious time with you, watching you sleep, as I go through your purse..."

I could read people's minds but only the good stuff.

I could tell my boss what I really think of him. And then have a three minuet running start.

That I was really really good at one thing.

My brain was organized to cross reference all memories for better recall.

On my walk on in "Grid Iron" with my Rock, I had not been dresses in so much football gear that no one reconized me.

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.