"You Can Never Go Home Again"

Well, that's not entirely true, is it? Now that I'm back in the Midwest it's as easy as taking Portage Road south 'til the fourth cornfield and hanging a left. And viola. Back in my hometown.

When I first left "home" I wasn't ready. I was a teenager - emotional, bitchy, scared. Typical. And so "home" became almost myth-like. The stuff of epic poems (and didn't I write a few).

But one of the things I know at thirty-five, that I didn't know at fourteen (dear lord, let's hope there's more than one) - is that home is just a place you start out. Not to discredit its indelible mark on me. My home happened to be in the middle of nowhere, just south of bumfuck township. I was detassling corn at age twelve. Shit like that changes a person.

But it's not all that I am.

I am not a corn detassler. In fact, I'm not a big fan of dirt. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I didn't like plants in my house. Until along came the day my old boss said "dirt doesn't belong inside." I've not had a plant in my house since that glorious day.

I am not trailer trash, though let it be known by the general public that I did grow up in a trailer park. Granted, our trailer park had tennis and basketball courts, a softball field, bike trails and was on a lake. But still, I like to think it was a character-building experience to sleep a good many summer nights in the basement of the community center during tornado season.

I am not hick. I know how to use the English language and use it correctly about 85% of the time. I did not "seen" or "saw'll" something. I "saw" it. I prefer "milk" to "melk". I do, however, use "ain't" a lot, but I think the people who know me know that I know that that ain't a word I'd use around people I was trying to impress.

There are things about home that I adore and are dear to my heart. I wonder if my little niece will ever know about county fairs, I wonder if she will be able to tell (on sight) the difference between sweet corn and field corn. I wonder if she will be able to tell (on smell) whether you're coming up on a pig farm or cow farm. I wonder if she'll have friends in the FFA or 4-H. I wonder if she'll ever fish in a row boat or pick and shell walnuts.

While those are fond memories of home, it's not like the kids who are living there now are all enamored with their unknown ability to distinguish between different kinds of farm animal feces. And so maybe it isn't so much that you can never go home again. It's just that with all you've learned, why would you? It's already given you all you need to make something of yourself. The rest is up to you.

Potty on the Brain

Not to dwell too much on the whole toilet thing, but I've spent the last several days touring the public restrooms through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and Maryland only to discover that human beings are disgusting.

Oh sure, they're all prim and proper when they are at your dinner table, but when they're on a road trip frequenting the public restrooms of the Turnpike, they could give a piddly poo about decorum and decency.

They become the most smelliest, noise-emitting, seat-spraying Jackholes to occupy our planet. And I'm not even talking about the Men's Room.

I dunno, I still believe in muffling toots and using seat covers and imploding rather than making uber-substantial deposits at the bathroom bank.

I know, it's gross to talk about, but let me say this - it's even grosser to live through it.

Prude? Maybe. The person you want in the neighboring stall? You bet your bare ass.

Please Do Not "Rest" In This Room

When cell phones first became popular, I was living in New York City. Not that many of my friends had them - we were all Che Guavera to Ma Bell, but still - they were out there quite a bit in my final days in the Big Apple.

Anyway, I remember thinking - yes - cell phones. These are perfect instruments for New Yorkers. They are another delightful way to keep New Yorkers in their bubble. That bubble they create, because you absolutely MUST pretend you are all alone on the planet - otherwise your head would explode at the idea of sharing an island with 6 million other people.

ANYWAY, cell phones are even more popular than before and I find myself bumping carts with some woman in Target who has a phone strapped to her ear or wondering if the guy with the Bluetooth is gonna ignite the fumes as we pump gas next to eachother. And mostly - I'm okay with it. A few cases of road rage, but otherwise - hey "it's your life."

But I've become increasingly disturbed by the Jackholes who have taken up residence in the bathroom stalls at work - who are talking on their freaking phones!

There are plenty of disturbing things about the Farm, not the least among them is that many people who work there are on tight schedules with very little "break time." I get that. But what in Zeus' butthole are people thinking when they decide they must speed dial their doctor's office in the Ladies Room and set up some appointments for their kids. Or chat up their friends on what a turd their boss is.

I've just never gotten the whole "resting" in the Restroom. This is the last room on the face of the planet that I want to hang out in. It is a room that must be vacated as quickly as possible. I have never supported the idea of reading material in the bathroom either. Let us not hunker down for story time, my friends. Let's pick up the pace already.

Maybe it's just a matter of taking things too literally. In that case, let me propose we switch the signs to: The Zip, Drip, Skip Room. If only to remind others to Rush-n-Flush.

The Lies We Leave Behind

I've been catching up with some old friends via the wonderful world of the web. LinkedIn, Facebook, and this - my little on-line "softer side of" diatribe.

I'm not sure if it's just the sentimentality of my 35th year or that cosmic need to be connected to folks and let's be honest, my wee brain isn't gonna go all Stephen Hawking on the subject. I'm just glad to have reconnected with some of my old cohorts.

What has brought me no end of glee are the funny stories that keep popping up. The Romper Room-ish antics from my past.

I spilled the beans once that I was an excellent fibber. The thing is - I forget how much I've actually gone a-fibbin'.

Here are just a few that have popped up (some I was reminded of, others I couldn't forget in a million years.)

Two-faced Mary: ask me about the "concept" band that I started with some girlfriends. Ask us where we play ("always out of town" - read: once). Ask me what instruments I play ("I'm a vocalist" - read: I can speak). Ask us how we can have so many pictures of us playing, if in fact, we don't ("we know people in the biz" - read: we've made out with a musician or two in our time)

Mig, Tig or Stic: On my trip to London I met up with an entire crew of masons at a local pub. I needed an "in", so I wouldn't have to drink my Old Speckled Hen alone. When one of them started talking about welding I said "Oh, mig, tig or stic?" Ok, I don't weld, but I used to work at an employment agency in my 20's and it was on the industrial application. I didn't buy another beer that night.

Shea, Abby and Quinn: I can't say for sure which one was me - but my two bestest friends in NYC were the other two. Sometimes you need a little alter-ego when you're hanging out in the big, scary city.

Step-sisters from 'bama: My bff K and I were going into this dodgy bar one night and needed a cover. Seconds before we opened the door, K said "Accents?". Suddenly we were step-sisters from Alabama whose "mama" and "daddy" had just moved the whole family "up No'th". We can't go to that bar anymore - 1.) I can't maintain a fake accent after 3 beers; 2.) Last time we were there CT's purse got stolen and she put a much-deserved "whammy" on the place.

The Psychic is In: (ok, I'd forgotten this one) While living in NYC, a sweet friend - DD (who I met on a Greyhound from New Hampshire to NYC) and I were hanging out in his 6x11 foot 5-floor walk up (ah, housing in NYC). Anyway - chat rooms were in, we were in one and we got everyone in it to believe we were a psychic. It's amazing what a bottle of red wine and a couple of wild imaginations can do.

Speaking of Fake Superpowers: A local pub in town has an annual event where everyone dresses like a freak. The first year I went, there was supposed to be a palm reader. Apparently she went and hooked up with somebody, 'cause she never showed up. My dogs were barkin' so I set up in her chair, had a friend stick a 5-dollar bill in a pint glass and before you know it I had a line out the door. I made $100 bucks that night telling fake fortunes.

These were just a couple that popped up in the last few weeks. But let me tell you this - when I'm an old woman, sitting in a wheelchair in some park - you definitely want to grab a seat next to me. I am gonna be able to spin such a yarn - you won't ever want to get up. Granted, in my 90's I'll probably think these stories are all true, but hell - I'll be 90. Who cares.

My friend, CT, has notoriously bad taste in movies (ok, just polar opposite of me) and was just telling me about this one written/directed by Bobcat Golthwait (ok, you tell me who has the bad taste) but regardless, it had this gem of a quote:

"It's important to lie. It's keeping up with the lies we tell about ourselves that make us better people." A load of crap? Probably, but one I don't mind getting a whiff of every now and then.

Reality Shmeality

I spent three hours of my life this week watching the season finale of The Bachelor. These are three hours I will never get back. I am annoyed on various levels but let’s begin with this. “Reality” TV has taken over my life.

When it all started, it was easy to pass on Survivor and even Season 47 of the Real World. Reality shows were few and far between. But now, at least every 3^rd show is “reality”-based, which leaves a dummy like me, glued to the likes of The Mole and The Amazing Race simply because I’m too cheap to pay for cable.

But what had me particularly tweaked the other night was the drama of it all. Three attractive people moping about on a television set, wondering if one attractive person will choose them or the other attractive person. Did I mention that every one on this show is attractive? And I feel bad for the hot guy as he breaks down over the stress of dating 25 beautiful women. He’s exhausted, people, let him be. Show some compassion for the insta-celebrity! And the girls, well, the girls. Yeah, I can see why these poor girls had to resort to a television program to find a date. It’s not easy being cute, petite, friendly, oh and did I mention attractive? Yeah, those are qualities that are a real detriment when you’re out there braving the dating waters.

I like the concept of The Average Joe. Twenty or so guys that range from Balding to Nerdy to Socially Inept. Anyway you throw them together with one hot girl and she chooses one. Oh, but wait, there’s a twist – you toss in a couple of model-esque men a couple weeks in and see where the lady’s heart lands. Hmm...tough one. And while I hated seeing the poor Joes get blown off one by one like candles on a birthday cake – it was closer to “reality” than watching a bunch of hot people talk about feeling “a spark.” Come on, these are “spark” people, they’re nothing but “spark.” They’re sparktacular.

But enough of these spark people, theirs is a tribe unto itself.

I guess the moral of the story is – I want my life back. I want to spend the day talking to people about my life and not the lives of strangers on Tuesday morning. I want to write blogs about W’s worthlessness and Obama’s awe-inspiring-ness, not on whether or not Matt and Shayne will make it (oh, come on – they’re heading straight for Splitsville, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 dollars.) I want to blame Reality TV for the fact that I spend three nights of the week glued to the television and giving the ol’ stink eye to the phone every time it rings. I’m looking for a scapegoat here, people and Reality TV looks like just the right kind of sacrifice to offer up at the Alter of Loserdom.

But enough of that, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to pop some corn for American Idol.

The Old Lady Cometh

I woke up this morning at 5ish. I taught a class until 10ish. I ate lunch. I tried to finish a schedule, but ended up checking out a cute guy most of the afternoon.

And then home.

Thing is - I considered calling some friends and seeing if they wanted to meet for a drink and then I thought - "But I can't wear my yoga pants to the bar..."

Thus ended the debate and my car auto-piloted itself to my abode.

When did I turn into such an old freakin' lady?

I used to be young and peppy and always game for a laugh or a cocktail. Now I bolt out of work, scramble up the three flights of stairs, change into stretchy fabric clothing items and perform a variety of housekeeping chores followed by on-line or cable entertainment. Then bed.

And it's not like I'm all sad to go to bed, like when you're a kid. Oh no, I'm all "Is it bedtime YET?!?!" I freaking LOVE bedtime. In fact, as I type this I'm wondering if it's too early to climb into bed.

Dear lord, get me a walker and some Polydent already. Looks like 35 is the new 95.

Poop.