the truth of the matter...

The other day while I was swimming with a particularly beautiful, and well mannered mermaid, we got on the topic of fairies.  Now up until this point I had thought her to be quite intelligent, but my opinion could not have been farther from the truth.  She flat out told me that fairies were not real!  I said that there were loads of them living in my garden and she gave me the snottiest look, like I was crazy or something.  I don't know if we can repair our friendship, I may need to find a new swimming buddy.  Being shackled to reality, in the way that I am, has oft times infringed on my fantasy world.  For instance, when I was a child, I lived to play Barbies.  My parents got me the motor home one year for Christmas, and as we feverishly assembled the 3 foot vehicle, there were stickers of household objects to make the place more realistic.  There were a row of books for the wall, bottles for the vanity and a picture of a turkey roasting for the door of the oven.  This perplexed me, why would I roast a turkey if I was on a trip in the motor home?  As far as I could tell, the only time that would ever happen, would be at Christmas or thanksgiving, both highly improbable times for a road trip.  I could hardly look at the oven because if I did, I would have to dress the Barbies in warm clothes, and forget about that cute sundress I was going to put on.  One of my daughters was similarly afflicted and found that the weather outside, dictated what outfits and activities the dolls would be allowed to wear, or participate in.  This drove my other daughter to distraction, she was all about fantasy, that is until she had to play with her little brother who insisted that the guy dolls,could jump like 3 stories or even fly.  Then all of a sudden reality would claim another victim and her little brother would be ejected from the room.  I have friends who encourage their children to fantasize about a chubby fairy-priest who brings gifts, but those same friends refuse to consider the possibility of lake monsters or cities beneath the waves.  Somehow, we are only comfortable with our own fantasy, and when someone challenges our version of reality, we hate it. At what point do our dreams and aspirations cease to be goals and become delusions?  I have friends who don't view reality in the was that I do(the mermaid being one example) and I find it hard to take them very seriously.  I also had a friend who used to hang out with mermaids all the time.  The one day out of nowhere she told them that they didn't exist, and she has driven herself quite mad, trying to prove it.  I guess what I am trying to say is that we need to be gentle with each other's dreams, hopes, fantasies and wishes, and be careful not to go stomping around in someone else's garden.  At the end of the day, and all of our days will end... do we want to be found with our friend's dreams smashed into the grips on the bottom of our boots?  So to all the princesses, fairies, mermaids and superheros, keep believing.  I once met Elvis, Elvis's son, Santa, and Satan.  He was a pretty powerful man, feared, adored, famous... a far cry from the frail,young man, sitting in his rumpled pajamas, at the table in the mess hall, of the mental institution. Norman,(which was the name on his chart) had been starved and beaten by his own mother since he was born.  Every bone in his chest protruded through the open neck of his striped pj's , his body would never regain it's strength, his teeth had all fallen out, and he was afraid of pretty much everything.  As he told me about how the beach boys were tenents of his, I knew that what he was telling me, in no way resembled what it said in his charts, and that I should set him straight, the way I had been told to do; I thought of a helpless little boy who wanted to be able to be stop is mother, make her love him, and my heart ached for him and I understood why he needed to be who he was.  My reality was that there was a child in front of me who needed me to love, acecpt and protect him.  And so I jumped into the depths with him, leaving behind at the shore all of my misconceptions.  When his mother died he asked me how he should feel, should he cry, was he bad for not feeling sad...I choked oy words as I tried to answer him.  His huge eyes seemed to look right through to my soul, searching me for any sign of judgement, or condemnation.  There was none.   

So, I have been thinking and for those who know me well, you know that this is a good time to log off or reach a bottle of your favorite prescription painkiller or even a strong muscle relaxant... a mixture of the two would be ill advised.  Then again that depends on your personal level of experience in drug mixing.  Either way, not my place to judge, in fact forget I brought it up at all.  So, how about the  weather...pretty cool.  Pardon the pun.  So here is what is on my mind and don't claim later when you are unable to sleep at night, that you didn't have ample warning.  There will be no law suits or even strongly worded letters, no threatening phone calls at strange hours, or mysterious cars sitting in front of my house or even persons of unknown identity lurking in the shadows .  And yes, this includes you Mr.Dressup, and don't think for a moment that I am fooled by that ridiculous  "marching band" uniform that you seem to love so much. I have it in good authority that you were never even in a band, unless you count that crappy 60's group LSD Love.  I don't count it, and trust me neither should you.  And while we are talking about trust, why do we put so much trust in what other people tell us?  Like what movies are good or bad, what jeans are perfect for out bums, or even what food is nice to get from a greasy burger joint in Raymond.  I recently caved into the pressure and tried a different chain of mexican restaurant while I was in Utah.  Normally the first place I stop to eat is Bajios, I love it.  But everybody always says"you should go to Cafe Rio, it is the best, way better than Bajios"  So finally this time I relented and had their famous salad.  It tasted nice and I enjoyed the experience, until about a half an hour later, while I was in Target innocently trying to buy linens for my daughter.  Out of the clear blue sky, a demon descends in to my colon and the severe cramping in my stomach has me hanging on the cart in order to avoid collapsing to the floor.  I want to run, to the anything but conveniently located restrooms, but the need to squeeze my cheeks together, renders this impossible.  Instead I am forced to make the long walk, face ashen, skin covered in goose bumps, in as stately a manner as possible.  If I hadn't felt so much relief, I would have pitied the poor soul who entered the cubicle after me, but instead I emerged all wobbly,sort of like a marathon runner, who's muscles have had to self cannibalize, dehydrated and exhausted... and yet thrilled to have made it through.  Later my cousin would casually mention that he never eats there because of what he calls "cafe-rhea" . Information that would have been useful yesterday.  However, I am sharing it with you, my faithful readers as a cautionary tale of what happens when you cave in to peer pressure;sometimes it seems well meaning, and then your butt makes a deal with the devil, and you don't even know it. And that is just like life, you try a salad that everyone is raving about, and the next thing you know you are in a world of pain,and still wondering what you did to deserve it.

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