OMG

Is it possible?! Laura Ingalls on Broadway? With Melissa Gilbert playing Caroline "Ma" Ingalls! My knees feel weak just thinking about it. Having watched the TV show religiously (RIP Michael Landon), read the books, and visited De Smet, SD, along the Laura Ingalls Wilder Historic Highway, THIS I gotta see.

Now excuse me while I mosey on over to the Ol' Amazon Outpost for a few staples ...

It's Storytime, Kids!

Today I read an article about this hilarious Craigslist Ad seeking a sitter for "5 Kids, Including an 18-year-old" Hmmm...that situation sounds vaguely familiar. As a former nanny-for-hire, I probably would have considered such methods of torture had the opportunity presented itself. "Reduced rent! Score!"

I never had to deal with a coddled Ivy League Brat, but there were a few incidents which gave me pause and questioned my sanity.

Gather 'round, everyone!

Rewind to one year ago *~(fog sequence)~*

"I HATE you! You're the worst babysitter ever! You're NEVER coming to my house again!" said Porcelain Princess No.1, her pigtail braids shaking with rage. Tears pooled in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks between fits -- I swear I caught a whiff of hydrocholric acid. "I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU!" she screamed.

Porcelain Princess No. 2, identical in appearance to No. 1 but slightly less scheming at this exact moment, surveyed the scene with much smugness. "You have to do what Babysitter says, she's in charge," said No. 2. The girls, 5 years old, were undoubtedly the apple of their parents' eye. Beautiful with bright brown eyes, chesnut hair and pale skin, they had learned to work their charm at an early age.

Their younger brother, only a few months old, crawled around the playroom floor without a care in the world. The twins' older brother, Naughty Jack Turner, pretended to ignore the unfolding scene while playing in a life size plastic kitchen.

Minutes earlier, Naughty Jack Turner, in an oft-repeated attempt to punish his attention-stealing sisters, randomly hit Porcelain Princess No. 1. He hit her until she became so enraged I couldn't stop her retaliations. She needed a time-out. But apparently No. 1 was not used to being disciplined in such a manner. She refused to sit down. I had to literally restrain her so she wouldn't get up from the seat. She did not like this. One. Bit. She screamed and kicked and scratched and flung a toy at me until I was able to free one hand and take it away. I had never seen a child so possessed and mad at the world before - it was as if Dr. Frankenstein's creature invaded her body ("Baaaaaaaar!") I doubt their mother noticed the flecks of blood on my arms later that night.

"This is it," I thought. "I am never babysitting for these horrible, horrible children ever again." But sure enough, a week later when they called and I was still without a full-time job, I caved.

Hip City Kids vs. Children of the Corn

I think about the future often. Especially when it comes to topics regarding career goals, family and LOCATION. I know I don't want to live in a big city forever, but I doubt I could ever go back to living in a town of 600 people. It's beautiful and clean and friendly and spacious and inviting, but so... so...isolated. (I feel like a complete snob saying that, but it's true).

A few months ago, while mentally comparing my wholesome, sheltered youth to the crazies and scam artists of New York, I casually thought aloud to one co-worker, "You know, I could never raise my children in the City." Little did I know she grew up in Brooklyn. She had also been subjected to this very comment numerous times over the course of her life, and this time she wasn't going to take it lying down. The fuse had officially been lit.

Do children enjoy a better quality of life in the city, the suburbs, or rural communities? What an interesting debate!

Our conversation was pretty heated; I was on the receiving end of more than one insinuated jabs about us country kids spending all our time getting drunk and drugged out at pit parties. (Pit Party: a party which takes place in remote locations such as woodsy areas and dirt roads, thus minimizing interference from local authorities. In the case of a police bust, the accomodating forests double as excellent cover from search lights). Her argument was simple: because there is so little to do in the country, teens are more apt to spend their time experimenting with booze and drugs. She added, children have more opportunities in larger cities by virtue of their easy access to larger school systems and college preperatory high schools.

So here's my deal. I wouldn't trade my childhood years in Timbuktu, WI, for a million city opportunities. I love that one of my earliest memories entails me skipping down the road, completely broke out with the chicken pox, excited to see cows. Just cows. And I love that my school bus driver was the sweetest red-haired lady, who, when irked by the naughty boys, would throw them in a garbage can. I love that I not only know how to hail a cab, but also how to skin a deer and drive a forklift. I love that there were only 8 kids in my grade school class, and that three of them were cousins (I still remember most of their birthdays). I love that we had a huge playground surrounded by fields, not the fenced-in parks of NYC which remind me of dog runs. I love that our favorite game growing up was not Super Nintendo, but a game called "Orphans" in which we pretended to live under a bridge a la the Boxcar Children. I love that we kept the key to our house on a pink shoelace under a window 10 feet from the door. I love that most of my town idolized the Green Bay Packers because THAT was the only thing to do. And of course, there were drawbacks, and I did get bored sometimes, but that's life.

When I did enter the real world, it was (and continues to be) a rude awakening. And in most cases, that's a good thing. Until high school, I had no idea there were religions in the world beyond Catholicism and Lutheranism, mainly because I didn't get the exposure to diversity most city kids get. And I'm still prone to scams and scammers because I am so inherently trusting of other people. BUT! I'm learning. I sometimes wonder what my life would be like now had I grown up in the city, but truth be told, it really doesn't bother me that I'll never get to find out.

The Library Fantasy

"They lived - And Loved - By One Rule: There's More to a Book Than It's Cover"

A true retro classic. I bet this made a great beach read back in the day. Not quite what my office looks like on a Monday afternoon.

It would be fun to come up with some alternative bibliophile titles, like "Tearing Open the Covers" or "Tender is this Knight." Ahhh, dirtyness...

One Man's Doorstep is Another Man's Bed

Here in New York, I've found it very difficult to avoid getting up close and personal with total strangers, as packed subways and tourist traffic jams are an inevitable part of life. Such is the case with my doorstep, which has become a haven of sorts to the homeless denizens of Hell's Kitchen.

Today I found this errant can of red beans, no doubt left by one of our famished neighbors. And beans are just the beginning. I've stepped over discarded takeout boxes, cigarette butts, and once a used condom. (One of my friends was grossed out by the idea of people having sex on our doorstep, which hadn't even crossed my mind!! Thanks, Tammy) Every few days I will find an actual presence there -- napping, smoking or chilling with other homeless people. For example:

One day, after running some errands, I found a homeless man napping on our doorstep. I noticed there was fried chicken drizzled down his shirt. I felt bad about waking him, disturbing his peace like that. I proceeded to say "excuse me" a few times, and when he still didn't stir, I started tugging on the door while he was still sleeping in front of it. He started waking up. Visibly disoriented, he kept repeating something like "I don't mean any harm..." As it turns out, a policeman saw the situation unfolding and came over. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked. I thought it was pretty obvious what was happening, but I'm glad he was there to help. He shoved the chicken man off with a threatening voice; I never saw the poor guy again.

I guess this is what happens when you move into an apartment building across the street from a soup kitchen and $1-slice pizzeria. It would be terribly selfish for me to complain, though; it's annoying, but at least I have more than a concrete slab for a bed. That said, it's pretty hard to ignore the harsh realities of life when it's waiting to greet you at the front door.

To Sleep, Perchance to....

So I dream a lot. And as an extension of this, I talk in my sleep a lot. Sleep talking is a form of sleep apnea known to the science community as "somniloquoy." Most people outgrow it by adolescence, but I guess I'm not most people. I have to admit, it's pretty easy to entertain friends/family with all the weird babblings, squeaks and bleets unconsciously coming out of my mouth. The result is sometimes profound, sometimes incriminating, and often random. A sampling of outbursts:

"I can't find my underwear!"

"Puppies..." *tosses head* "Puppies..."

"Puppies."

-*Babbling noises*-

"People cannot see what is right in front of them..." (first line of song composed in sleep)

"NO!"

"Who are you? Where's the baby?"

That last one was relayed to me by my boyfriend, who was a tad disgruntled upon hearing it, to say the least.