It wasn’t even Easter. It was summer, circa 1972 in Knoxville Iowa. Since I’ve now told my father about my blog, I think it will be extra fun to start sharing ALL MY DREAMS in my blog from here on out. HAH!

This was one of those dreams that was SO VIVID, when I woke up, I thought it had actually happened. I was only 4 years old. But I dreamt that I had a giant basket of Easter candy, complete with a big ol’ chocolate bunny, sitting right by my bed on my nightstand. And I was SO DISAPPOINTED that it hadn’t happened. I even wanted to try to go back to sleep and see if the waking up without the Easter basket part was maybe the dream, and then there WOULD be a basket of candy waiting for me. Since we didn’t celebrate Easter, it never did happen, either. But every year, and now we’re talking 32 years later, I still remember that momentary flash of thought and hope & the realization that it was only a dream and the sunshine and the smell of grass and the reconciliation struggle between dreams and reality. That stuff never, ever leaves you. And often the struggle remains the same.

Today, I will bite the ears off the bunny I got from my Operation Haremail pal, Leah, and then share the rest of the bunny with my hubby, who once hid plastic eggs with jelly beans all over the apartment to surprise me. Not only is he a keeper, he’s bona-fide. ;)

Here’s a little 8-track flashback most of you probably don’t have. I was 9 or 10 years old, just your standard 4th grade life in rural Iowa – except for the raised-by-hippies, never-gonna-fit-in thing, but anyway, I had a half mile walk to the county gravel road from our house. This is where the schoolbus would pick me up, and my dad would often walk me out in the morning with our dog, Ghost, and I would be on my own walking home after school.

But then that fall, some neighbor across-the-way (and keep in mind, neighbors in rural speak is anyone within an 8-mile radius of you, sometimes more) had basically lost control of his dogs. He let them go wild, and they were running as a pack, taking down deer, etc. It was quite the buzz. As a fleshy child, smaller than a deer, there was some reason to be concerned about my own safety. I can STILL remember my dad putting his hands on my shoulders and talking to me: “OK, Jennifer. There are wild dogs running on the property. Now, I’m going to do my best to meet you at the schoolbus after school every day, but if I don’t get there in time, here’s what you need to do-“
(me: GULP)
Dad, continuing. “If the wild dogs come (HOLY SHIT IF THE WILD DOGS COME? my brain was racing.) you need to climb a tree. (HOLY SHIT HAVE YOU SEEN ME EVER CLIMB A TREE? NO!) But there aren’t any really good trees to climb along the lane, so here’s what you do, you get a big stick right when you get off the bus. (HOLY SHIT I HAVE TO FIND A STICK. FIND A STICK. GOT IT.) Then, if the wild dogs come (OH MY GOD THERE’S THAT PHRASE AGAIN), you need to find a big tree, put your back to it and wave the stick around in front of you at them and yell. (YELLING, WAVING STICK. NOT A PROBLEM. ENVISIONING LOSING BOTH ARMS AND JUGULAR TO WILD DOGS.) I will be there shortly. (SHORTLY? LET’S TALK ABOUT WHY YOU’RE NOT THERE ALREADY, MAN.)”

All I could do was nod. TER-RI-FIED. And for the record, my dad met me every day at the bus, so this whole stick procurement/tree safety thing never needed to be put into place, not that I didn’t have stark visual images of it in my little 9-year-old brain. I have always been prone to delusions of grandeur, but I never fancied myself the hero in those imaginings, more like a terrified child watching the last few minutes of her life be images of a big wooden stick and the snapping teeth of a wild dog or three.

It didn’t end well for the wild dogs. They were “taken care of” one weekend when my father heard them down on the bottoms, and with his binoculars could tell that they were chasing deer. He called the farmer in question and informed him that he was going to go down there with his rifle and kill them. This was where, in terror, I thought it could all end Disney-like, the farmer would come to his senses, drive over and get the dogs and take them home and be a responsible person again, and everything would end well. No snarling snapping dogs anymore, just kind, gentle farm dogs that licked the back of your hand. URRRRRT, that fantasy screeched to a halt. The farmer said he didn’t care what happened to them, that he couldn’t control them anymore, and so my dad, along with one of the other hippies, John, went down and we could hear the cracking report of their rifles, and it STILL makes me sad, because they weren’t wolves, they were dogs, but they weren’t dogs anymore, either, they were back in the large food chain cycle, where large deer and chubby 4th graders all looked tasty on the buffet of life. Re-reading this, I also realize that Hippies with Rifles is pretty damned funny. They weren’t your typical hippies, my folks. Nothing about my life has felt particulary typical, but it sure does make for some funny stories.

Not that being attacked by wild dogs is funny, for let me tell you, I will carry that Wild Dogs Safety Lecture to my grave.

First off, we’ve apparently become the sister city to London. I went out to get pizza and beer tonight & it was damp, chilly & misting. I’ve forgotten what the burning orb in the sky even looks like. If it ever returns, I’ll be blinded for days, blinking like the Mole People. ENOUGH already, I needs some sunshine!

Second, if you haven’t heard Snow Patrol’s cover of Beyonce’s “Crazy In Love”, you are missing out. It’s one of those songs that makes me want to get up on a (sturdy) table and dance all hoochy-mamma-ish, slowly enough that I don’t slosh my drink everywhere. Therefore, if you are looking for a good laugh you should get me a drink, a sturdy table, and coerce the bartender to play this song.

Third, I am PISSED at Roadrunner because they keep jacking up my email / master user account and now it’s my name with a NUMBER, hello, I am not J LO on the 8, I am the ONE AND ONLY. Spent 20 minutes tonight on the phone with tech support so I could finally download my email – one email containing the aforementioned MP3 so I can sit here and imagine dancing on a table while I play the song over & over.

Fourth, I am almost done with the flowers for Folly. Let’s do a quick tally and pats on the back, shall we? 8 large flowers per color (4 colors) = 32 large flowers. 6 small flowers per color (4 colors) – 24 small flowers. (look, I’m doing all this math in MY HEAD, I am so RainMan.) 32 + 24 = 56. FIFTY SIX. This is the reason I will be the first person on EARTH, besides the designer, to finish THIS SWEATER. I have to stitch the last 6 flowers and then finish the sleeves. THEN, then, oh lord, could it be? DONE? I will need a drink.

Fifth, I discovered my local Gomer’s carries Herradura tequila. If all goes well, I will be buying myself a bottle next week & doing several shots. All tables in the vicinity had better watch out…….

My head is splitting in two this morning, and it feels like I downed half a bottle of Herradura tequila last night. Quick inventory. What did I do? Oh yeah, went over to Kristin’s for a knit night and the whole famdamily of gangsta knitters showed up. We were missing a few comrades, but if they’d shown up we would have had to put people in the bathroom.
Oh, mah god. My hangover is from laughter. I know Mary Englebreit’s got that cute magnet that says “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on”? Well, peeps, when I reach the end of my rope, I go down in a blaze of gunfire, sharp-tongued observations and maniacal laughing. Think Bruce Willis in the original Die Hard. Yippee Kiyay.

I can’t even capture the individual quotes and string them together to have them make sense. I remember shouting at Abbey “HEY, Only Child Bitch!” (Dont worry, I’m one too.) There was also a lot of discussion and jokes about the room Abbey & I are getting at Two Rivers, our local mental health facility. My chief complaint about our plans to stay there is that they do NOT have spa services, and the rooms do NOT look very luxurious. It also looks like they might have meetings and interventions and such, and I need to make sure I tell them when I check in that I’m NOT going there for that, the last thing I need is another fucking meeting.

So, praise the heavens, I’m laughing again, I’m feeling a bit more like the phoenix, and so perhaps I can rise this weekend myself. I’ve got a craving for the Herradura tequila now, but I bet they don’t let you bring it in to Two Rivers…..

For everyone who commented & wrote me, thank you! And on the puking dog front, Polly recovered beautifully – was her adorable loving self the following morning, albeit a bit hungry. :) Meanwhile, I’m off to work. Yes, off to work. You mean some people get today off? Huh? I am SO taking one of those mental health days soon.

Good lord, peeps, I don’t know what’s happening in the world, but it’s like the clock got shoved backwards & we were smack on March 15th all over again! Foul stuff happened at work, my friend David got stuck in Lee’s Summit last night because his car died, and he & Roger worked on it until almost 9 last night – and Polly threw up more times than I want to try and count right now, so I was up until nearly midnight, when I finally surrounded her bed with newspapers & unfortunately, the only thing she had left in her was liquids. I never even got dinner, because my stomach was so in knots from the events of the day and then, well, suffice it to say, cleaning up after a puking dog is not really an appetite stimulant.

I actually woke up before my alarm went off this morning, and I’m hoping that means today is going to be better. It has to be better. Hell, the dog has no food left in her to puke at this point, so already we’re off to a better start. I’d ask that you say a little prayer, or wishful thought, or even place an offering to Buddha, Vishnu, God, whomever guides you on your journey, to make my road a little less rocky right now. I’m quite prone to turning my ankles, and I just need things to settle down. With that, I give thanks in advance, because I know all of you who tune in to this blog actually will, because (not to get all Sally Fields here, but) you do care – I love the internet and its ability to bring people together across the miles! (it’s how I got my husband, who, thankfully, is coming home early & I will not feel quite so alone. I miss him. Did you know we met online? That’s a good blog entry. I’ll do that one soon.)

Thanks. From the bottom of my bruised, achey-breaky heart. :)

I’ve told this story so many times, I was sure I’d done it on here….. but a search of my archives says I didn’t, so here we go. I’ve already given away the punch line, but the story’s still funny. If I’ve told it & just can’t find it? Apologies from me, BlameShift onto Blogger. Poor Blogger, such an easy patsy these days….

I spent a lot of time with my Dad, hanging out in his shop, “dusting.” Looking back, dusting in a room where loads of sanding and cutting and general woodworking was taking place was rather -how do you say – FUTILE? But it was more an excuse to just hang out with him. The sun the moon and the stars were hung by my father, and while I know he’s a mere mortal and I’ve grown up a lot, he is still an influence in/on my life and I love him totally. In our times together, he would teach me all sorts of interesting things, about philosophy and Latin and ethics and anything else I could fit into my growing brain. One of those little gems was “Ex post facto” (“after the fact” as Dad taught me, a more detailed, legal version is here).

Fast forward. I was a covert gum smuggler in 5th grade. We would walk up to Bob’s IGA at recess (one whole block away), and I would stock up on Bubble Yum and Bubblicious. Sweet sugary forbidden goodness, people. We were NOT allowed to chew gum in class, and did that ever stop me? Well, no. I tried to be covert, but did get caught. After one aggregious transgression, Mrs. Urlaub, the science teacher, made a new rule. Any student caught chewing gum THREE TIMES would be sent to the principal’s office. Duly Noted. My gum chewing became more underground, less present in her class, and the smuggling via pencil case continued. I was caught again. DAMN. Then, shockingly, I know, I was caught AGAIN! But dudes, dudettes, it is not curtains! It is only catch number two! So I was oblivious as she told me to come out into the hallway. DOop de doo. My fogbanks persona had no idea what was up.
“Where’re we going?” I inquired.
“To the PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE,” Mrs. Urlaub grouched at me, peering over her glasses.
Amazed, agape, I say, “But why?”
More peering and a big frown. “For chewing gum, that’s why! This is the third time I’ve caught you, and I said that on the third time you’d go to the principal’s office!! So, come on!”
Momentary pause, mind racing.
“But wait!”
She turned and looked at me.
“Ex post facto, Mrs. Urlaub! You made that rule AFTER you caught me the first time. This is only the second time you caught me with gum after you made that rule. You can’t count the first time. Ex. Post. Facto.”
Holy Shit. I could have knocked her down & stolen her glasses. She was dumbfounded. I was not trying to look smug, but I know I was giving her the “I AM RIGHT” look, complete with skyward-bound eyebrows.
She collected herself and tried to recover.
“Well. NEXT TIME, NEXT TIME I catch you. You are going to the principal’s office.”
I nodded. “That’s fine.”

And she never caught me again. Thanks, Dad. I’m sure you never meant for me to use Latin to evade punishment, but, hey – when in Rome…….

I like to categorize the different parts of me inside as being run by gnomes. It makes for a fun visualization, and well, I like gnomes. I have very stringent rules about gnomes, for example, their hats must be POINTY. They cannot be CHEERFUL or GAY in the CHEERFUL sense. What they do behind closed doors is their bidness. This does not mean they must have a dour look at all times, but the true gnomes have a seriousness about them, as serious as a 5th grader telling her science teacher, “Ex Post Facto, Mrs. Urlaub, you did NOT catch me with gum a third time, it’s only been two times since you made that new rule.”

Right now, the gnomes that run the Fun Center, which is where my emotions funnel through, and usually get some semblance of humor or at least a twinge of sarcasm, those gnomes seem to be pissed off and annoyed. They don’t fling Happy Powder into the Emotional Stream, as assigned. I imagine they’re just standing around, grumbling & grimacing, discussing the possibility of starting a GnomeUnion (the Gnomesters! Who will be their Jimmy Hoffa?). Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that I started the day filled with joyous hope and a newfound appreciation for Springtime, and now?

NOW?

NOW IT’S SNOWING.

All I can say is, “Goddamn.”
But you know what? I could be this lady with bad hair wearing a CAT SWEATER on The Wheel. So I can still find that shiny fucking silver lining. And my gnomes had better not unionize. I can plant more than tulip bulbs, y’hear? Y’HEAR?

So, my bunny pal Leah out in NY was quick-like-a-bunny and sent me a package HOPPITTY SPLIT, and made me promise not to open the box until my package to her went out. I finally got it mailed yesterday so, Leah, keep your eyes peeled & don’t let the dogs open it for you! :) I opened everything last night & got the CUTEST Easter stuff, I will take a pic tonight & post with more thank yous and adulations. Kudos to Tammy at polkadotmittens, too, for such a cute, clever exchange!

I have said earlier my fondness for Fall, rather than Spring. I love all the seasons, and I enjoy cooler weather more than hot, sticky, humid badness. But this Spring feels a little different. Maybe it’s seeing allllll the tulips I planted (with some hole-diggin’ help from my hubby) springing up through the mulch. Did you know I never really got to plant my own stuff as a kid? It was all things my parents wanted – I was the extra pair of hands. Maybe if I’d had my own garden, I would have learned this lesson a little quicker, about patience, and planting months out and how things spring up after snow and ice and rain to flourish and flower. Maybe it’s the promise of learning more about gardening & getting more pretty flowers in the ground this Spring, and anticipating all the bountiful goodness that comes out of my husband’s vegetable garden. I still marvel that plants actually grow from SEED. I guess I got too used to buying plants, already started for me!

Maybe it’s that there are many things growing, budding, brewing and that this Spring will contain new things, new changes, new growth. The one thing I did get from my mother that I’m proud to own is an undefeatable optimism, that manages to live deep inside me alongside the darker, sadder, more critical part of me. That optimistic part refuses to lose hope, not so much in things or situations or stupid stuff, because I recognize the limitations of what I can control or influence. That optimism refuses to lose hope in ME. I feel like the tulip bulb, spreading out my roots, and I can’t wait to burst forth in a glorious rage of color and shout out, “I AM HERE”. Good things happen, and hope springs eternal. I wish for all my friends, here & in blogworld, a change-filled spring that gives you growth, opportunity and a joy inside of you that illuminates and shines so the world can see how wonderful you really are.

I tell ya, I totally dodged a bullet in third grade, when Mrs. Parker noticed she had TWO Jennifers in her class now, and so we’ll call one Jenny, and she assigned the other Jennifer with her new name. I even remember thinking “I hope she doesn’t make me the Jenny,” because I was SO GRATEFUL that I got to stay Jennifer. I even remember looking up the definition of my name & being horrified that the shortened version was a name for a female donkey – who wants a nickname that means ass!?!?!

Even now-a-day, being called Jenny by people makes my skin crawl. It’s just not ME. It feels diminutive, and it feels like a liberty that can only be granted by me. (Now, don’t think I spend days in a rage over this. This is just one of those peeves.) What’s really difficult is when people I know do it, because I have yet to develop a tactful way to tell them, KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF. I try to lightheartedly say that Jenny drives me crazy, and they can always call me Jen if they want to shorten my name, but sometimes it’s one of those things in passing on the phone, like my friend’s wife this morning said, “Oh hey Jenny how are you” right before handing the phone off – there was no way to say “NOOOOOoooooo” but I still felt the internal shudder. Often when I’ve corrected people, they end up feeling bad or apologizing – for all the people who ASK if they can call me something different, I love you, and thank you.

The worst offender was my art professor in college – he was my advisor & I tried repeatedly to emphasize calling me Jen or Jennifer – to no avail. FOUR years, of cringing in every conversation & class with the man. He ended up getting a sex change operation a few years after I graduated, and instead of being “Bob”, he’s now “Bobbi”…… guess he trumps me for ch-ch-ch-changes…….