Rurally Screwed.

That's what I want to be.

That's what a gal named Jessie Knadler is.  Rurally Screwed.

In her memoir of the same name, Jessie K. recounts how she fled the very rurally screwed life of Montana for Manhattan at the age of seventeen only to return to that rurally screwed life, but this time in southern Virginia with her cowboy husband Jake.

See, I had similar aspirations.  I wanted to flee podunk, redneck Winfield, MD, although Manhattan wasn't my destination.  (Instinctually I knew I wouldn't survive there, spiritually speaking.  Wouldn't thrive there is what I should say.  You get my point.  Anyway.)

After I graduated from South Carroll, I fled Winfield and headed straight for southern Virginia to Southern Seminary College for Women in Buena Vista.  The college wasn't a seminary in the traditional sense.  It was a private, all girls junior college with a history dating back to 1868, not far from Lexington--home of Washington & Lee University and Virginia Military Institute--precisely where Jessie K. and her family reside now.

While at Souther Sem, I was gonna make myself over.  I was gonna transform myself from a socially awkward wallflower whose shyness came across as aloof.  I was secretly ashamed of how my dad and uncles had dirt permanently lodged under their fingernails, my grandmother's canning, the redneck trucks.   I never felt like I fit in.  I was gonna find myself a fine man who came from a long line of southern gentlemen.  Never mind that a college boy from the oh so preppy, private, very monied Washington & Lee University would have been attracted to me, in part most likely, to piss off his mother since my background no where near matched the expectations she would have had for her son.  No matter.  And forget about a VMI boy; they were way too patronizing.  (Sorry, Jessie K.)

In my mind, when I returned to podunk Winfield, no one would recognize me. They would be quietly stunned by my metamorphosis.   I had grand plans (and a rich interior life that doesn't always match reality).

I didn't last two months at Souther Sem.  I despised it there.  Here's the thing.  I went to the college because my mother wanted me to. I knew I wouldn't like it there, wouldn't fit into this monied world where we pretended rigorous academic life when in truth my seventh grade science class had been more challenging than any of my classes combined at Southern Sem.

For Pete's sake, the campus had a barn where the students could board their horses.  (To be fair, they did have an excellent equestrian team.)  You could take an equestrian class for your gym credit instead of the traditional gym class.  Not me, though.  We couldn't afford the extra fees associated with gym-class-as-equestrian-riding.

I share this with you to give you an idea of the level of gentility of this college.    

Students came from all over the South.  I think I was as "Yankee northern" as you could get even though Maryland is, technically, south of the Mason Dixon line.  Most of the students had been riding and show jumping since the age of grade school (if not sooner) or cheerleaders too stupid to attend any college but their parents, bless their hearts, couldn't condescend to enroll their precious daughters in community college.  Such a thing would be disgraceful and appearances meant a great deal.

I found the unspoken goal of finding a husband at nearby W&L University or VMI--the very goal I had, mind you--to be suffocating.

I didn't last two months.  I couldn't carry on the charade.  I despised myself.  For leaving Winfield in the first place, to think I could be better than anyone I left behind.  For coming to Southern Sem when deep, deep down I knew I wouldn't fit in.  For dropping out, that I wouldn't thrive there.  I personified self-mortification.

In February of the following year, I enrolled in community college.

What does this have to do with Jessie Knadler's memoir Rurally Screwed?  


Not a cotton pickin' thing.

But like Jessie K, we have learned not to make ourselves over in someone else's image, according to someone else's expectations.  Motivated by the belief that the self we have couldn't possibly be good enough so we transform ourselves according to the expectations that we think the other person has.  

This is a very difficult lesson to learn.

I will probably never be rurally screwed in southern Virginia or Oklahoma or Colorado, raising hens and writing in the attic of an old farmhouse because Joseph wouldn't be comfortable living in a place where people are outnumbered by cattle.  (I keep telling him that Oklahoma needs teachers too, but it falls on deaf ears.)

Jessie K. has made a life for herself on several acres with her husband and baby girl, a rescued dog and chickens.  Her memoir Rurally Screwed is engaging and heartbreaking at times.  But goodness and grace spring from that despair.

Stop what you're reading.  Set that book aside for now.  Instead, read Jessie Knadler's memoir Rurally Screwed.   It's that good.

P.S. Southern Seminary College for Women is now Southern Virginia University, a liberal arts college that "promotes the standards and values of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints."  That's so not even remotely what the college was when I was there.  For two months.  Just sayin'.

What's in a name?

Sebastiana Telphusa.

That was the name I conjured to be my pen name way back in high school when I day dreamed about becoming a writer.

I thought the name sounded sophisticated.  Cosmopolitan. Like I lived in Paris instead of podunk Winfield.

I practiced signing it over and over again, making sure the flourish of my contrived name looked just so.  Not too much flourish otherwise the name would be illegible.  But just enough to give it a je ne sais quoi kind of allure.

I know.  Ridiculous.

But now I really do need a pen name.

Any suggestions?  
  

Which is better?

The first paragraph of a book either invites you in to read more or kills it dead.  Furthermore, if the writer doesn't hook you in by the fifth page of the novel, then the entire book is dead on arrival.  Here's where you come in.  Here are two different openings to my current manuscript.  Which is better?  Which one makes you want to continue reading?

Option One:

        Seventy-eight cats.  That’s how many cats Alexandra Merriweather was going to die with.  Maybe a dog or two just because.  

She was certain of this despite the clichéd image of an old lady dying surrounded by too many cats.   

She wondered, too, whether or not she would ever marry.  Remarry, that is.  

A part of her knew that even thinking about the idea of remarriage was ridiculous, especially since her first marriage had ended in divorce.

Option Two: 

       Alexandra Merriweather wondered if she would ever marry.  

Remarry, that is.  

A part of her knew that it was futile to borrow trouble from the future by considering such an idea as remarriage.  Especially when her first marriage ended in divorce.  

And yet, here she was hiking up a steep trail in the state park where she and her now ex-husband had exchanged vows, overlooking a waterfall with their families and closest friends as witnesses.  Today, she had taken a personal day from her newspaper job to hike this very path she tread as a new bride three years ago.

Which one do you prefer, avid readers that I know you are.  Which one makes you say, yes, I want to read this novel?  Of course, you may not like either option and that's okay too.  Tell me so.  You won't hurt my feelings.  

Let the voting begin. 

This is how we play the game Candy Land at our house

Yesterday afternoon, Elias suggested that we play Candy Land.  Good idea.

Both boys clear the kitchen table of their toys while I grab the Candy Land box.

In a few moments, the board is spread out on the kitchen table.  Elias wants to be the red gingerbread boy.  Ethan chooses blue.  I want yellow.

At Elias's suggestion, we don't use the cards that come with the game that tells you how far to advance.  Oh no.  Instead, he dumps all of his piggy bank money onto the table and meticulously places all the pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters along the colorful Candy Land path.  We will use the money to advance in the game.  I'm not sure how the money will indicate how far or how little each player will advance during his turn, but suddenly, we are in a free for all grab of piggy bank money with strict instructions to avoid Lord Licorice.

Then Lord Licorice captures two gingerbread boys, casting an evil Zombie spell on them so the gingerbread boys are now Lord Licorice's minions.  In their Zombie state, they capture Lolly, Princess Frostine, and Mr. Mint.

Wait for it!  Army men to the rescue!  But some of the Army men are bad and side with Lord Licorice while others side with the remaining two good gingerbread boys.  Now, we have a civil war on our hands.  A terrible, terrible thing.

Here's the plan:  the two remaining good gingerbread boys are to lure the bad Army men into Mr. Gloppy's fudge swamp where they will get all sticky and stuck while two good Army men sneak over to Lord Licorice's hideout and disable the power source for the electrical fences imprisoning Mr. Mint and Lolly.  With the aide of Princess Frostine, we froze some of the bad Army men too.

Wait for it!  You must double jump over the electric fences to avoid getting shocked.  (Just one jump means you will get shocked, by the way).  Remember, double jump.

After a horrendous battle (don't forget to double jump) with many casualties on both sides, Lord Licorice is finally defeated, which causes Candy Land to implode and collapse.

Mama, can we do it again?

Well, sure.

If you live in a house full of girls, I bet you never played a game of Candy Land quite like this.

The tooth fairy came to call

Elias's top front tooth fell out yesterday afternoon. He's such a big kid now. Can you believe it?

Last night, he asked "How does the tooth fairy get into the house?"

Um? "Magic," I say.

"How does she know when to come?"

"I'll call her to her let her know your tooth fell out," I  lied.

"How does the tooth fairy lift me up to put the money underneath my head without waking me up?"

Um? "Magic," I respond.

"If the tooth fairy is so small, how can she be big enough to lift me up?"

Um? "Okay, Elias.  Enough questions.  It's time for sleep." 

The tooth fairy left $1.25.  Inflation.  

Shopping

Last Saturday, I went clothes shopping (alone!) for the first time in a long time.  As many of you know, I'm a big fan of the TV show What Not To Wear (although Stacy and Clinton would be appalled that I wear sneakers even when I'm not exercising).

For two hours, I tried on jeans, sweaters, and blouses.  Too big.  Too small.  Too long.  Too short.  Too big here, but too small there.  One after another.  Then back to the racks for more rooting and poking.

Each time I tried on a different pair of jeans, I repeat to myself like a mantra: "It's just a number.  It's just a number," referring to the size.  I'm annoyed that the sizes are not uniform among the different brands of jeans.  Of course, I'm looking for the perfect pair.  No mom jeans here.

Moreover, I'm getting annoyed at myself.  I typically don't look at my body in the mirror.  Some of my body parts sag, most of it is doughy.  Some might call it zaftig.  (That's an SAT word right there.  Look it up.)

Then I notice on the tag of the umpteenth pair of Levi's that the jeans are made in China.  An iconic American brand manufactured in another country.

Are there any clothes still manufactured in the USA?

Don't get me wrong.  I still bought that pair of Levi's despite my reservations.  After all, the jeans made me look less doughy.  Later,  I checked out the website for Levi's and they do good things: "profits through principles" and working with cotton farmers to use less water and chemicals on cotton.  All well and good.  Still.  An iconic brand of American jeans are manufactured in China.

What would it take to bring back the manufacturing to the USA?

The Seed Catalog!

I am excited!  The seed catalog arrived in the mail last week.  Pages and pages of beautiful vegetables, herbs and flowers.

Lavish abundance packed into tiny seeds.

Every January, I fantasize about all the tomatoes and herbs and flowers that I will grow on my desk.  In turn, I fantasize about all the homemade salsa from truly vine ripened tomatoes or pesto sauce that I will make with my abundant little container garden.  You will envy me.  I might even share.

What are your gardening plans?