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.