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Tuesday, December 18, 2012

~Life Isn't At All Like a Lifetime Movie~

     The problem with Christmas expectations, is that they will never equal the imagination that has been tainted by Hollywood.  The idea that you can wave your hands and make a wilted tree limb turn  into an Elegant Christmas Tree is simply ludicrous.  I have spent at least seven years trying that trick and do you know what?  I still end up with a kind of wilted tree stuffed with home made ornaments.  Sure, my tree is precious because all the homemade ornaments were made by the hands of my kids in years past--but it ain't exactly elegant.

     Furthermore, all of the Romantic crap that you see on the Lifetime channel--the ones where love is rekindled and there are diamonds and trips to the tropics for a surprise renewing of the wedding vows--are made up.  It doesn't really happen in real life, or at least not to 100% of the people that I know.

     Also, sometimes the holiday season is more like a comedy central version of Christmas--one of those shows where the food get burned and sewage backs up and squirrels jump out of trees and occasionally the cops get called--but unlike the Comedy Central show, it isn't some humorous mix-up and people really do end up going to jail.  Real jail with real fellow convicts and orange jump suits and cheap deodorant that smells like onions. 

    Now that I think about how horribly wrong Christmas can go, I am starting to feel a little more thankful for mine.  The above scenario with the sewage and the squirrels and cops and  the orange jump suits will not happen to me. 
I can say that with almost 98% certainty.  The jail thing won't happen, but I have a history of sewage problems, so I am fully confident that shit can go wrong super fast, so it is best not to get cocky.

I am just a little touchy because Martin is in North Dakota hauling oil and he may not make it home for Christmas, and I am feeling a little put out by that.

Obviously, I am thinking of a Christmas special about me (played by Dolly Parton) as a hard working woman missing her truck driving man and singing songs to orphan children while holding a stray kitten.  In the middle of the show, there would be a snow storm and my truck driving man would be out of communication I (still played by Dolly Parton) would sing a Christmas hymn guaranteed to make the audience cry their  eyes out--and Martin (played by Matthew McCoughney) would pull in with his big rig all lit up with Christmas lights.  I don't want to completely spoil the surprise--but there would be a fat man in a red suit in the passenger seat and perhaps a herd of 'livestock' in the bed of the truck.  And diamonds, and a puppy dog named Little Andy.
Alas--I am probably not going to have that Christmas either, primarily because I look more like Angelina Jolie than Dolly Parton but also because Martin couldn't actually high jack an oil tanker and drive it home.
But if he did, the addition of  jolly fat man in a red suit wouldn't be so much of a Happy Surprise, but more of the surprise along the lines of, "No....I understand why you brought him, he is interesting...but how do we get rid of him?"

I can say this with 100% certainty though:  my expectations run the gambit and I am bound to be both disappointed and delighted by the final outcome. 
I will be disappointed that there are no diamonds or vacations..
but I will be absolutely delighted with the fact that I have three kids that aren't orphans  that will sing Christmas hymns with me.



Monday, January 16, 2012

~When I Was Her~

When I talk about the Boys Camp, I do so in a tone that makes me appear as though I were wise, or loving, or kind, or cunning. It has been 18 years since I left the place and I have had plenty of practice telling Boys Camp stories in a tone that fits the mood.

I tell the story of the ghost "Mary" that I made up to scare the boys, and when I tell that story I want people to appreciate my ability to improvise in emergency situations.

I tell stories that are religious in nature, in which I used some verse of the bible to explain a truth to a boy, and when I do that I want the listener to believe that I was once a twenty-two year old girl on a mission to share the word of the lord with young boys who might never ever hear it otherwise.

I tell alot of stories, and most of them are true to the best of my recollection--but I don't often tell the truth about who I was when I was working at the Boys Camp.

It is 100% fair to say that I went into the job believing that I could make a difference in the lives of boys. It is also 100% fair to say that I had no idea what it was that those boys needed. I pretended to be what I felt I should be for the eight days that I was a housemother.

The picture that I have posted was taken six months before I went to the camp, and that is the look that I tried to emulate on those nights when I was not a house mother for twelve boys. When I was at the Boy's Camp, I braided my hair and didn't wear a smidge of make-up. I did this for two reasons:
1. I had to wake 12 boys up at 6:00 am, and I didn't give a rat's ass what I looked like.
2. I recognized that at the age of 22 I was only five years older than some of my 'kids'. I didn't want them to think I was cute. I wanted them to think of me as a guardian.

But there were nights when I took the braids out of my hair and got out the aqua net.

When I was the girl in that picture, I requested an evening off so that I could go to a wedding with Martin. My request was granted, with the stipulation that I leave after the boys had been tucked into their beds for the evening and that I would be home before midnight so that I could preform my House mother duties at 6:00am the next morning.

I completed my hair and make-up while still at the camp and left wearing pants that were to big and a gray t-shirt. I drove my red Trans Am the hour and a half that it took to get to the local JCPenny where I purchased a green dress with pearl buttons from the collar bone to the hem,a pair of white pumps and thigh high nylons that I attached to a white garter belt.

I dived into the gas station next to the church to change into my wedding reception finery, and I met Martin just as the keg was getting tapped at the reception.

When he met eyes with me in the doorway, he walked across the room and wrapped his arms around waist, he sniffed into my hair and then whispered that he was so happy to see me that he would open all of my buttons with his lips.

The reception was grand, we danced and we ate and he introduced me to everyone I had not yet met as "Miss Idaho".

Because I am telling a story about When I Was Her, and She was me an entire lifetime ago, it seems only fitting to admit that we left the wedding reception inside of a Catholic church, and we went to a basement with a bed covered in animal hides and while we were there we partook of illegal substances and we listened to Ac/Dc at full volume and Martin proved his promise to open my buttons with his mouth.

Many hours later I was covered in sweat and panting on a cowhide, and I realized that I had missed my midnight curfew.

By many hours.

Many many.

I fact, I had been fornicating for so long that I had less than an hour to get back to the Boys Camp before my job began for the day.

When I was the girl in that picture, it felt like a challenge and I believed that my red Trans Am could take corners like it was on rails and I was just young enough and immortal enough to get out of town and then stomp on the gas pedal like it was a cockroach.

There is/was a spot along the road in which it was a Missouri double letter road that had hair pin turns and little hills. There is a special sweet spot that has three humps in a row, and I had always taken them a bit fast so that I could get the roller coaster butterflies--but on that particular day when I was racing the clock and listening to "back in black" at full volume--I hit first one so fast that I sailed over the hump and landed on the top of the second hump. I goosed it at the top and sailed to the third hump and I did a fist pump out of the absent T-top when I didn't crash.

When I reached the turn-off to the camp I squealed to a stop and reversed to the trail through the trees. This was when I remembered who I was supposed to be, and so I turned off the music and crept through the woods to the driveway. There I turned off my motor and coasted to a stop, just as the sun was creeping through the trees and I knew the wake-up call would be issued soon.

I snuck into the front door and made a bee-line for my room where I stripped off the dress and put on my pajama pants and size XXL t-shirt. I had to piss like a Russian racehorse, but I thought that if I went to the bathroom it would alert my partners that I had just gotten home and so I chose to pee in a coffee can in the corner rather than leave my room.

That day went from there--I pretended to have just awoken and herded boys to their various school activities while I was still feeling the after-glow mind blowing orgasms and drugs and booze. As soon as they were gone, I went to bed and slept the afternoon away.

When I talk about the Boys Camp, I usually do so in a way that makes me look like I was being selfless and doing things for others.

But ahhhh.....when I was her, I also did things because I wanted to know what freedom felt like.

Wednesday, January 04, 2012

~Forgetting The Swimsuit~

Martin called last night and accused me of purposefully forgetting to pack his swim trunks.

"How was I to know you would need a swimsuit? You are forty five years old, if you don't like what I pack--pack for yourself."

Then I changed the subject and we talked about kids and what the new job was like and how many days it would be before he was back. He brought up the trunks again, and again I deflected by asking him if he thought I was clairvoyant and just knew he would be in a position to get into a swimming pool.

Between you and me: I knew there was a pool, and I did purposefully leave out the swim trunks. I am not clairvoyant, but I did google the hotel in Montana and I know there is a hot tub and a swimming pool.

I left out the trunks for the simple reason that I am not interested in my husband walking around in his trunks because he looks damn sexy in those trunks. He is 45, but his mid section hasn't gone to flab and his upper body is finely sculpted--pecs, shoulders, biceps--don't even get me started on the muscles of his back. He is a fine look specimen and his trunks ride his hips just enough so that there is a peek of where his side muscles attach to his hips and it looks like a prime piece to nibble.

There a a couple of other things I "forgot" to pack for him: toothpaste. deodorant. a razor.

What can I say, when he is far away from me, I have ideas about how I would like him to appear to the general populace. I assume he will get toiletries from the hotel vending machine, but I am banking on the fact that he won't bother to shave and when he is far far away from me, I prefer for him to appear woolly.

And not particularly well dressed.

I packed all of his favorite hoodies and long sleeved shirts, and threw in all of his favorite t-shirts. I picked the work pants that weren't full of holes, and forgot to put in the pair of pants that are stain free and craddle his ass perfectly, and I passed right over the shirts that he wears on date night. I have been packing for him for 18 years, I didn't forget to fill it with clean socks and underwear--but not the underwear with the perfect ball cup.

I like to think that I pack for him out of love, so that he will be comfortable when he is far away from home. But it is fair to say that I also pack for him so that he isn't looking like eye candy all alone in a hotel hot tub.