You wouldn’t know it to look at me (daily uniform: jeans and American Apparel t-shirts), but I adore fashion. After nearly 19 years of being married to an artist, who is also the world’s best web designer, I have become a design snob. Everything from fashion to architecture to interior design to website design will be judged, often harshly. Heck, I’m even a font snob. (Perennial favorite: American Typewriter because it reminds me of the old manual typewriter I used to write my stories on; House Industries’ fonts are beyond cool; but don’t even get me started on the over-use of Exocet and Papyrus!)

I’m usually not a fan of reality shows or contest shows. Quite frankly I could literally not care less about the hair-cutting or cooking contests. But I loves me some “Project Runway!” Last season was rather lackluster and my favorite (Carol Hannah) didn’t win, but this season is shaping up very well indeed. I mostly like Emilio; Amy seems to be quite original; Seth Aaron is as cool as Jeffrey without all the distracting tattoos; but my favorite is Mila Hermanovski.

Mila is awesome–she’s cool, attractive, hip, and around my age. Her designs are strong and interesting; she knows how to draw inspiration from the tiniest of clues and seems to have a real sense of vision. However, she doesn’t get a lot of respect from the other designers. Every twenty-something on the show sees him- or herself as a wunderkind, the next Christian Siriano. Anybody approaching or firmly in middle-age just cannot possibly be any good! You know what? Christian was a one-off. Very rarely do these youngsters have a firm design aesthetic, they simply haven’t had the time to develop one.

So Mila’s first “mistake” was being a middle-aged woman. Middle-age is far more acceptable on a man than on a woman, so men around Mila’s age or older aren’t looked down upon as too old to be hip or cool or fashion-forward. Women, on the other hand, are often dismissed as “too old” and past their “use-by date” when we reach middle-age. It’s ok to ignore us and diminish our accomplishments if we aren’t fresh and nubile anymore.

Mila made a bigger mistake. The inexcusable crime of being self-confident while female. When a man is self-confident or over-confident, people will use words to condemn his behavior–cocky, arrogant. If a woman exhibits the exact same traits, people will use words to impugn her character, her very person–bitch, whore.

If we, as women, don’t diminish our own accomplishments, there will always be others only too happy to do it for us. If we achieve and excel we are expected to be coquette-ish about it. We adopt an “aw-shucks” demeanor, looking at the ground as we dig a dainty hole in it with a dainty toe. We bat our lashes and give all the credit to providence, luck, and all the other people without whom we would be nothing. If we say, as men would, “Hell yeah, I’m good!” we are reviled and someone needs to make an example of us.

This week, poor Mila stated that none of the other designers were interested in how well she was doing before, but she’s getting along with them in workroom now because she’s “more centered” whatever that means.

I think something happened, maybe not a big something, maybe a series of small somethings. There are petty but cruel ways others have to let a woman know when she’s stepped out of line. The lack of congratulations when you do well, the blank stares when they see you’re still there, the likely shunning in communal spaces.

My hope is in all this “centering” that has taken place, Mila hasn’t become humbled, that she hasn’t lost her self-confidence. I hope that she’s simply learned to conceal it a little better, as so many of us have learned to do. It’s a bad lesson to learn when we find out just how different the rules are governing women vs. those concerning men.

Mila Hermanovski is a talented, strong designer and I hope she wins. I hope, out of support and sheer cussedness, that she shows up all the young doubters.

Yeah, go Mila, win this for the cool-middle-aged-woman team!

It strikes me that there are certain things that grown women do that are better suited to teenagers. Things like read silly vampire books, wear skinny jeans, and over-inflate the worth of Valentine’s Day.

Why do grown women do these silly, teenager-y things? Probably to recapture some lost sense of youth. Perhaps the passing years have done to their girlish spirits what gravity has done to their girlish figures. Years of dealing with a harsh, cold world with little regard for the human heart can really grind a person down.

Perhaps their relationships are deeply unfulfilling. We have all sorts of fanciful notions about life and love when we are achingly young. Especially if life and love treats us kindly when we are young. If you have a sweet and passionate love affair while in the throes of adolescence, then the every-day realities of grown-up love can seem to pale in comparison to the unicorns and cloud-castles of first love. There was a reason Romeo and Juliet were teenagers.

Valentine’s Day may be the only time of the year when matrons feel like maidens once again. If women are partnered, sadly, with men who ignore them or worse, Valentine’s may be the only day on which they can be assured of their husbands’ attentions and affections. One single day that reminds them of first love and possibilities, of shoe boxes filled with cards and chalky candy hearts, of steamed-up car windows and the fear-thrill of maybe being caught.

My son (age 7) loves Valentine’s Day! Everyone in class decorates bags and then gets cards and treats from every single other child in their class. No exceptions, no one left out. I heartily approve of this because when I went to school, it was strictly law of the jungle, babe.

Back in my day, teachers and administrators seemed reluctant to intervene in the kid pecking order. Given enough time, and sufficient lack of supervision, recess would devolve into a mini-Lord of the Flies-scenario. For me, Valentine’s Day was only one more reminder of just how unpopular I was. Other girls’ shoeboxes would be so full the lids would not quite close. My paltry take would rattle around in the bottom and many of them bore messages clearly indicating the sender was being forced to give me said valentine.

Then, when I was a little older, one of my aunts told me that her sons (my cousins) had a habit of breaking up with girlfriends before Valentine’s Day so they wouldn’t have to buy gifts. This reinforced my impression of V-Day, that it is just a manufactured holiday designed to force displays of affection, even if they are feigned.

The media and Hollywood have convinced us that we need these cheap, manufactured gestures to prove that we are loved. Silly me, I always thought that simple consideration for each other and every day affirmations of our feelings for one another prove that we are loved. Nothing says “I love you” like saying “I love you.”

To the poor women out there who hold out for that one day a year when he’ll finally have to look at you instead of the game, take you out to dinner instead of being ungrateful for every meal you make, and spend time with you instead of with his whatever-buddies, you deserve more.

To all the men out there who would rather do anything else than spend time with their wives, rather hang out with fishing-buddies or poker-buddies as opposed to their girlfriends, or begrudge the women in their lives this one day of consideration, shame on you. Seriously, who do you think is going to take care of you if you, say, have a stroke. Do you think your poker-buddies are going to spoon-feed you or wipe your butt? No, if something life-changing should befall you, they will shake their heads, say “did you hear about poor Jim?” and thank their lucky stars they aren’t you.

You know those awful, insipid “chick flicks” she drags you to? She’s trying to show you the kind of romantic behavior she would appreciate from you. And I guarantee that if you pay attention to her everyday, actually say the words “I love you” to her everyday, make tiny gestures of affection everyday, and exhibit actual (not feigned) interest in her life, you won’t ever be dragged to another chick flick.

Personally, I don’t like movies about “romance”, I prefer movies about relationships, human contact, because it is that human contact that fuels us. We need human contact as much as we need food, water, or air. Without it, we die.

Mr. Prairie is very good at the day-to-day maintenance of love. Not a day goes by without an affirmation that he loves me and that I am beautiful. And yesterday, while I was at work, he thoroughly cleaned the kitchen. That man will never have to see a “chick flick” he doesn’t want to see, ever.

It’s not entirely some kind of big favor on my part. When given the choice, I rarely choose the chick flick, I’ll usually go with the sci-fi, the super-hero, or the gothic horror.

Not that we go to a lot of grown-up movies. Getting someone to watch both our kids at the same time is a bit of a production. My parents will do so occasionally but I don’t want to go to that well too often. So while we won’t be going out to the movies this weekend, I know which one I’d being seeing if we were: Wolfman.

You can keep your sparkly vampires, werewolves are awesome!

Bigfoot has been part of my life since I was a little girl. My first memories of watching television consist of two things: Sesame Street and the Patterson film. I was five when I first saw the Patterson film on TV, and it is so firmly impressed in my psyche that I can even picture the pajamas I was wearing when I watched it. My parents probably didn’t exhibit the best judgment on that one (but who am I to say, both my kids have seen it, too). And I’m pretty sure they regretted it later, especially when I made my daddy cut down the Bigfoot-shaped tree outside my bedroom window!

Later, we moved to a small town, into a housing addition at the edge of the country. Neighborhood legend claimed a monster lived back in the woods beyond the barbed wire at the end of our dead-end street. I would lie awake at night listening for him, but only heard trains and coyotes. There were a few times when I ventured into the wilderness, well as wilderness as my Girl Scout leader would allow. At night I kept my eyes tightly shut so I wouldn’t see Bigfoot’s shadow on my tent wall.

I’ve always insisted that curtains and blinds be closed after dark, “so Bigfoot doesn’t see me.” Although why I’m being so solicitous of Bigfoot’s sensibilities doesn’t make a lot of sense. But neither does my fear/fascination with him.

My peers have always had a lot of fun at my expense because of this Sasquatch-a-phobia. Several of the boys from my church youth group made a short Bigfoot mockumentary on a group trip to the Kiamichi mountains that I had to miss. Whenever we would see a large, hairy man driving by, my ex-friend and I would shriek, “It’s Bigfoot!”  Let’s hope none of them ever heard our display of extreme immaturity.

After the Patterson film came out, Bigfoot enjoyed a brief flurry  of pop culture attention. Then he largely faded into the background once again. Harry and The Hendersons tried to revive wide-spread interest in Sasquatch but, alas, it was a very stupid movie.

The past five years or so have been a veritable renaissance in all things Bigfoot. Once relegated by the media to northern California and the Pacific Northwest, sightings of Bigfoot and all his smelly cousins are being reported in every state except Hawaii. He goes by different names: skunk ape, Fouke monster, grass man, and let’s not forget his Tibetan cousin, Yeti.

Monster-hunting shows are always looking for Bigfoot, one was even set here in Oklahoma (in those same Kiamichi Mountains!). You can now buy Bigfoot greeting cards,  Christmas ornaments, and toys. And don’t forget that Yeti has been a part of Christmas ever since Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer came out! In fact, there are so many cool Abominable Snowman and Bigfoot-themed Christmas items, that I will be having myself a Yeti Little Christmas for 2010. Anyone who wants to receive our Sasquatch Christmas cards needs to let me know early.

Anyway, after all these years fearing Bigfoot, it’s time I address that fear, and him, directly:

Dear Bigfoot,

Look, I know you’re shy, a lot of big guys are self-conscious of their size. There’s no reason to be ashamed. Maybe it’s the language barrier, or the smell. It’s nothing a bar of soap can’t handle, and an ape named KoKo learned sign language and you are lots smarter than that dame. Perhaps it has something to do with all that bad press in the 70’s.

The Legend of Boggy Creek didn’t cast you in the best light, and don’t even get me started on Creature From Black Lake! But I think your nadir had to be your dubious appearance on The Six Million Dollar Man. Talk about your dark-night-of-the-soul, that had to hurt.

I know there was a half-hearted attempt in the 80’s to cast you as a gentle giant, all vegan and crap. But nobody bought it, it’s just not reasonable to suppose you got that big just eating twigs and berries.

If you haven’t been keeping up with your press (maybe you need a better agent), let me tell you it’s on the upswing right now. Frank Peretti wrote a book called Monster, he even made you the Big Hero. (Side note to Frank Peretti–if you want to disprove Darwinian evolutionary theory, making your hero gigantopithecus, not the best idea. Seriously, Frank, if my buddy Sasquatch is so adapted to his environment that he is virtually undetectable, then he pretty much proves that whole survival of the fittest thing.)  There are all these TV shows about you; you’re even selling beef jerky these days. And then there’s that whole Official Olympics Mascot-thing!

I think now is the time to go public. You couldn’t ask for a better time, look how well your buddies, the cavemen, are doing!

Anyway, when you’re ready, just let me know. I’ll try not to freak out.

Signed, Burning Prairie.

Not.

I generally despise television advertisements, especially the ones aimed at women or their children.  We all know that children are rather suggestible; my son wants a blanket with sleeves and my daughter wants some of those wonderful hanger thingys. Personally, I could use some Space Bags ™ for my over-stuffed linen closet, but that’s neither here nor there. The worst commercials are aimed squarely at middle-aged moms.

There are the ads that want me to believe that Andie McDowell, Linda Evangelista, et al, would be dried-up, old hags without the unguents and potions they want us to buy. Or that grown women need to be small enough to fit comfortably in kid chairs or wear their teenage daughters’ jeans. Anything approaching a post-pubescent hip-width is greeted with horror.

OK, so not only are we supposed to maintain an impossible beauty standard, lest we suffer the odious fate of not being sexxxay anymore, we are also not allowed to feel physical or emotional pain. Now, I am all for medications to relieve pain or depression, solely for the benefit of the person in pain. But this attitude is apparently not shared by advertisement agencies. If we are depressed, we need to take antidepressants so we can be more social and not burden others with our sadness. Any benefit to the depressed person is but a side-effect.

Physical pain is even less acceptable. Women who suffer from fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis are being targeted for several new pharmaceuticals. This is especially ironic because so many women suffering from fibromyalgia were told it was all in their heads by so many doctors for so many years. Now fibromyalgia is fully recognized as a medical disorder and women are getting the treatment they need. The thrust of the ad, though, is “take our meds ’cause middle-aged ladies in pain are no fun.”

My newest outrage comes from an aspirin company pushing their migraine-specific version. The tag-line is “Don’t let your pain become someone else’s problem.” The visual is a mom playing with a child. Because the only reason we should even want to relieve a headache is to keep from imposing on our families. God forbid we should want to get rid of the throbbing pain because it sucks for us! No, we alone are not worthy of a pain-free life. If not for our poor, beleaguered partners and children, we should just allow the pain of a migraine to reduce us to a mass of quivering, light-phobic jelly.

I don’t get migraines, but my tension headaches are real barn-burners. Trust me, the last thing I think about when I take those little blue gelcaps is whether or not someone else is inconvenienced by my pain. I am inconvenienced by my headache and that is enough. 

Interesting how you never see men-specific meds marketed as “cures” for other peoples’ problems. We never hear how a man’s sexual problems may be affecting his partner so he should take Brand X e.d. drug. Or how his frequent nighttime bathroom trips are also keeping his partner awake so he should take Acme Prostate drug. Every drug specifically marketed to men emphasizes the benefits to men. Weird.

Exactly why is there a difference in marketing? There are really only two possibilities, equally disturbing. One, marketing departments assume that women should only care about their health as it pertains to and affects others. Or the more probable two, the knowledge that women have been socialized, inculcated with the belief that they are defined only by their relationships to others.  Since we are not individuals, worthy in our own rights, we are just daughters, girlfriends, wives, mothers, sisters, grandmothers. And as just somebody else’s whatever, it is assumed that we won’t take care of ourselves unless we are told that our health problems make us bad wives or mean mamas or burdens on people who shouldn’t have to actually care for us.

The sad thing is, they’re right, to a degree anyway. Check out Twitter or Facebook profiles sometime. People who put their relationships to others first on the list are usually women. I’m guilty of this myself; wife and mother are the first two things on my profiles. Mr. Prairie, the most dedicated husband and father, doesn’t put either in his profiles. While anecdata is no proof, check it out yourselves. Moms are more likely to put that high on the list, because it is expected of us.

While parents of either gender are supposed to put their children’s needs ahead of their desires, only mothers are expected to subsume themselves to their families. If we don’t put ourselves dead-last on our own lists, we are horrible people, bad mothers, selfish bitches. Even when it comes to our health, we have to consider others first. So the ones taking care of others get the least care themselves.

Since most women have been thoroughly socialized to be nice and accommodating, and to fear being perceived as mean, selfish, forceful, or bitchy, maybe we do respond to different kinds of marketing. It just pisses me off. Maybe I’m weird, but I want companies trying to sell me something to acknowledge that I, alone, should be reaping the benefits of that something. I apply face cream to keep my skin from feeling tight, dry, and itchy. I take pain relievers so I don’t feel like hitting myself in the head with a tack hammer. Tell me why your face cream or lipstick will make me feel better, not sexier or younger. Tell me why your pills will make my body or head hurt less, just for me.

And any benefit to my husband and/or children can just be a side-effect.

I am short, plump, wear glasses, and have shoulder-length hair that is still mostly brown. If I was wearing an orange shirt and red skirt I’d be a dead-ringer for Velma from the Scooby Doo series of TV shows and movies. I am also geeky, smart, talkative and a general know-it-all. And I’m OK that with that.

While I am now OK with being a nerd, geek, or “brain,” it took me years to get here. Growing up, my peers tried to make me believe that being smart was somehow unseemly. I never could quite get my responses right. When I first discovered that I was smarter than most of the other kids I didn’t bother to conceal my intelligence and my natural pride in it. After all, God gave me a fine, sharp mind, why should I hide it? Of course, in school, anyone who falls outside a narrow range of acceptability is punished by his/her peers and even by some teachers.

After being physically and mentally disciplined by a girl bully in my class, I became more circumspect. While I refused to act like a simpering fool, I dreaded the inevitable narrowed eyes and accusatory question, “You’re a brain, aren’t you?” It’s a no-win situation. Say “no” and I’d look like a fool; say “yes” and I’d look arrogant, full of myself, which is what the bully said.

In high school I was put into Gifted classes and honors classes, where I didn’t have to hide or pretend. And I didn’t have to effectively shut down large swathes of myself to interact with my peers. After high school I began to recognize that not everyone finds me mercurial and charming, so I learned to respond to different people in different ways. But never once have I “played dumb” to make friends. And I learned that plenty of boys like smart girls, including Mr. Prairie.

Even though I learned the difference between confident and arrogant, I never became popular. In fact, I don’t really understand the popularity of being popular. One advice columnist counseled a young girl on how not be a know-it-all in class and then sent her a booklet of instructions to become popular. As you well know, I am all me and I am all out there, come what may. Popularity just seems like too much work to me.

We are never acceptable as we really are, we have to change some aspect(s) of ourselves to make friends, find love, succeed in life. How do I know this, TV and movies tell me so. We will never get a date to the prom, stop being a basket case, snag the right guy, or be happy unless we poor, sad, smart wretches endure The Magic Makeover. A whole genre of “reality” shows now exist to shame us with fat asses, crooked teeth, bad hair, sloppy clothes. Movies prove that “ugly” nerd-girls only find true love with lip gloss and the right accessories.

And if we have to deny the existence of our brains to land a man, is he really worth landing? Or are only pretty girls worthy of love?

We all know that Daphne and Freddy have a thing going on, but poor Velma is always alone. She proves The Magic Makeover trope. She never gets a makeover, so she never finds a man. Luckily, real life is absolutely nothing like cartoons. Nearly every nerd-girl I have ever met has been extraordinarily successful in matters of the heart. Probably because love is not really based in the heart, but in the brain.

We are never going to attract the shallow guys, the insecure guys, the dreadfully conventional guys. The guys/men who like us are attracted to our intellects, our outside interests, and yes, even the way we look. And men do make passes at girls who wear glasses.

So to every awkward but brilliant girl out there, I say forget about trying to be popular. Forget about The Magic Makeover. All the lip gloss in the world won’t change who you are on the inside and if someone only likes you after the makeover, they aren’t worth your precious time or brain cells.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the death of a friendship and to pick it apart to find out what killed it.

And that is about all the dark humor I can manage. One of my longest-standing friendships is officially dead and it hurts my heart. It hurts my heart so much that I have been trying, and failing, to write this post since Thanksgiving. And since I need to write this, to get this pain out of my heart and onto the page, I haven’t been able to write anything else.

I should console myself that it wasn’t the best, strongest of friendships, but I can’t be so flip. The thing itself wasn’t built to last but somehow it did for over two decades, off and on. Our friendship was not built on the bedrock of the heart, but on the shifting sands of appearances.

Now, I was loyal as a puppy dog, kind of pathetic really. But if I stepped out of line, even a little, she dropped me like I was make of fire. If I embarrassed her, I could expect a passive-aggressive letter dismissing me from her life. One time I got the dreaded letter for not spending her working hours alone and pining away. I selfishly insisted on leading my own life outside of my working hours and this was not to be tolerated.

I think it’s important to add something here. She could probably tell you all the many things I did wrong, all the many ways I failed her, perceived or actual.  But this is not a tally of who did what to whom nor is it told from her perspective. This is told from mine.

Now I can laugh at the absurdity and out-of-proportion-ness of the ridiculous letters, but they really hurt at the time.

Looking back I can see that we were both young, foolish, selfish. I was not perfect and there were certainly times when I should have been more empathetic, understanding. There were times when I let her down, but there were times when she should have been more forgiving, flexible, accepting of my all-too-human flaws.

Whenever I was so casually discarded, I never approached her, never begged her to take me back; my self-respect wouldn’t let me. But after the first time, I knew that she would eventually soften and want to be friends again. What I didn’t realize at the time was that she only softened her hard-line stance when she needed something from me. The things she needed weren’t really things at all. An antidote to loneliness, someplace to stay, a shoulder to cry on. When tragedy struck, I rushed to her side.

As the years passed, our lives took divergent paths. I married young and stayed that way. It was easy for me to transition from single girl to staid and stable matron. She married some years later and moved away. We kept in only the flimsiest touch; Christmas cards would be exchanged and nothing more.

One year I got the Christmas card back. Worrier that I am, I called her parents and got her new address and phone number. Our friendship re-thawed a bit. She had need of me again–her first marriage hadn’t worked out and I offered a sympathetic ear, commiseration, and no judgement.

When she married again and then had children, I expected our friendship to move into a new, more mature phase. We had all these things in common again and I hoped that we had both grown up a little.

About this time I noticed something troubling- I was the one doing all of the catch-up calling, the one doing the drudge work and general maintenance of a friendship. She would call me only when she needed advice or when she needed to be talked down from the new-mom-ledge. I had been there before, I had the road map, she needed it.

I began to have the sneaking suspicion that she was “slumming” a bit by being my friend. Although I am a loyal, defend-you-to-the-death, got-your-back, grade A friend material, I was chopped liver to her. I was Rhoda to her Mary, Jan to her Marcia, Velma to her Daphne. I was the nerdy, awkward bookworm, she was the head cheerleader.

The friendship certainly didn’t feel healthy, so I decided to do nothing. Stop calling, stop emailing, and see what happens. Then came Facebook.

We became Facebook friends; this seemed like a nice way to transition into a more surface-type friendship. Unfortunately, I don’t do surface very well, which has always been our problem. I am all me, all out there, come what may. Once again I embarrassed her or outraged her, or something.

Anyway, I have been able to pinpoint, if not the moment of actual death, the cause thereof. Politics of all damn things.

I posted a “Why I am the way I am”-type of essay about my personal political viewpoint. We hold rather divergent viewpoints, with me being somewhat to the left of center. It was enough. Apparently the fact that I exercised my first amendment rights and didn’t hide my liberal head in shame, and refused to bow and scrape and apologize for having my own opinions, was beyond the pale.

After a bit of back and forth and general misunderstanding on her part, she stopped communicating with me altogether. I didn’t even get another passive-aggressive letter.

The friendship became totally unresponsive and I have had to face the unpleasant reality that it is truly gone. There is no there there, anymore.

Even if, sometime in the future, she were to decide that I wasn’t so bad after all, I don’t think I could do it. There would always be a nagging doubt. What would it be this time? Which opinion or behavior, which appearance would she find intolerable next time? I don’t have the energy to always be schooling everything I do or say or write just to keep from offending her. But I do have the self-respect to say goodbye.

If you are reading this, which I doubt, I wish you well. We had good times when we had them and survived the bad times. I don’t regret anything. Take care of yourself and your family.

Me

We have a car, and I mean A car. One. It’s a 2002 Volvo station wagon that is beginning to show its age. The leather upholstery has been completely kid-ified, the central console is broken (by a kid standing on it), and I don’t even want to know what’s under the backseat. But it’s paid for.

Anyway, last Friday the yellow “check engine” light came on while we were running errands. Just knowing it was something terrible, I called the dealership to have them look at it. In the meantime we went through the owner’s manual and checked everything we could check. One of the things mentioned that can cause that light to come on is a loose fuel filter cap.

OMG, what is that?! It sounds serious! Nope, they mean the gas cap. I was the last person to gas up the car so I went out and check it. I couldn’t remember if I had tightened it down at the gas station but I did so when I checked it. The “check engine” light still mocked me from the dashboard. Stupid light.

After driving rather gingerly, waiting for the engine to grind to a halt, I took in today. The guy at the dealership asked if it was shifting fine, I said it was, then he asked me about the gas cap. I told him that couldn’t be it because the light didn’t go off after I tightened the gas cap. He told me that the light actually has to be reset. I told him that I would be embarrassed, but delighted, if it was just the gas cap.

I called Mr. Prairie and told what the guy said, and HE said, “So there’s a chance you broke our car?” I tried to protest that I didn’t like to tighten the cap until it clicked because I was afraid I would break it. Mr. Prairie informed me that was stupid, because the clicking tells you it’s closed.

The dealership guy just called me, I owe them $98 for the diagnostic and $54 for a new gas cap. The rubber seal was worn out, you know, because it got all dried out. Because I didn’t tighten it down.

Stupid gas cap.

I am the family weirdo, the black sheep, the one who’s gone astray. I’m sure that, in my absence, other family members shake their heads ruefully, tut-tutting at the shame of it all.

OK, some background is in order, lest you start developing an image of Bonnie Parker crossed with Calamity Jane and projecting it upon me. My husband and I have been married for over 18 years, our children are nearly-7 and 4-and-a-half, and we are serious homebodies. I don’t smoke, don’t take anything harder than ibuprofen, rarely imbibe, and have but one vice–Dr. Pepper.

I find “Girls’ Night Out” to be distasteful at best and have never participated in one. I like being married, I like everything that goes along with being married. I have somebody to walk beside me while I navigate the rough road of life. Mr. Prairie and I have a true partnership of equals. He doesn’t try any of that submit nonsense on me and I don’t try to wheedle and manipulate him to get my way. We co-parent our children; we have each others’ backs and present a unified front. I know that he is just as competent at parenting as I, if not more so.

I have never been arrested and haven’t even been stopped for speeding in years. While public shared spaces aren’t good places to post the 10 Commandments, I try my best to adhere to them in my own life. Especially the boring ones about not doing various things that hurt others, like not stealing, not killing, not bearing false witness, and not cheating on one’s spouse.

I look like the boring middle-aged mom that I am. Jeans and t-shirts are my customary uniform. My feet can be found in very small, very comfortable shoes.

Why then, am I the family weirdo?

Because I don’t go to church. Seriously. That and all it implies. I had to abandon the baptist church, because they abandoned me. Not one to be meek, mild, and mealy-mouthed, I refuse to buy into that whole submit nonsense. And since, to conservative types, appearance is all, my refusal to pretend makes me a perfect target.

Ya know, in other families I would be considered the stable, boring, “good” one. But being a secular, liberal, free-thinker has marked me, perhaps forever, as The Family Weirdo.

Sunday marked the one year anniversary of the House of the Burning Prairie housefire. Can I please have a boring year now?

Sunday officially kicked my butt. Yesterday didn’t just beat me up–it punched me right in the kisser, held me down, and took my lunch money. Sunday had help. Friday softened me up for the kill with a little help from Thursday. Over a four day period I took my son on four trips to three different medical providers for two different issues.

Thursday was bad enough. Monkey noticed some swollen lymph nodes in his neck; they seemed to get bigger and more tender so I took him in. The nurse practitioner noticed a tick bite near the swollen glands. The tick had long since fallen off, but still. A TICK BIT MY BABY!

Then, on Friday, I got a call from the school. The secretary told me that Monkey was in the nurses office and I had to come get him and take him to the doctor, pronto. The nurse told me that he fell on the playground and split his head open and that he would need S-T-I-T-C-H-E-S (she spelled it out).

And if you didn’t know already, scalp wounds bleed. A lot. It was gruesome. Monkey proudly informed me that he didn’t even cry. Then he told the nurse that he didn’t cry and then he told the doctor that he didn’t cry.

Happily, they didn’t need to cut off any of his beautiful, golden hair to put in the three staples. But before they installed his new hardware, I got stuck with the difficult task of holding a piece of gauze soaked in numbing agent on that golden head for half an hour. Mr. Can’t-Sit-Still-Ever wanted to touch everything, climb on the gurney, pull on the room decorations, and generally make it nearly impossible to numb his little scalp.

Finally, after about forever, the doctor came in to install the staples. Monkey insisted on seeing the stapler first and declared that it looked like an alien robot. I’m so proud. After the staples went in, he said it just felt like he got stuck with a thorn from a rose bush.

Robots and roses, that’s my funny little man.

We took it kind of easy on Saturday. We went out to lunch and then hung around the house. I went to work and came home at my customary wee hour. Mr. Prairie told me that Monkey had complained of a headache in his temples and had been given ibuprofen.

Sunday morning came too early, as usual. We needed to go to the grocery store and thought we’d get out early, while other folks were in church. Then Monkey sidled up to me and said, “My head hurts here, ” one hand to his temple. “And here, ” other hand to his other temple.

I called the pediatrician’s answering service. The doctor-on-call (the kids’ favorite) told us to take Monkey to an urgent care center. I’m fairly certain that every runny nose in town was there. Monkey closed his game and rubbed his eye. He told me it hurt and that everything looked foggy. I promptly freaked.

Oh, I may have appeared calm, but I was all panicky on the inside. When I told the lady at the desk about the vision-thing, they told me to take him to the E.R. I insisted on seeing a doctor first. She told me he needed a head CT. Right then.

Having children brought a new level of fear into my life. When I was pregnant I was terrified of miscarrying or being murdered for my precious cargo. I didn’t like going anywhere alone and developed an unreasonable suspicion of (and hostility to) anyone who seemed too interested in my belly.

After Monkey was born, I was nearly paralyzed with fear. Fear of dropping him, bathing him, overdressing him, under-dressing him; fear that he wasn’t getting enough milk even when he topped the 90th percentile for weight. I was scared of SIDS, abduction, germs, anything that could possibly harm my child.

As he has grown and begun to venture the world (well, school anyway) without me, I’m scare because I’m not there to catch every fall, to cushion every harshness, to deflect the slings and arrows. I’ll have to face this same fear with my beautiful little girl next year, but for now, she’s still safe under Mama’s wing.

But yesterday, Sunday, that awful day, I was scared that my boy was going to die.

All from some stupid playground accident; all because my child, who knows no fear, tried to do a back flip on the monkey bars.

I couldn’t show that fear to my sweet baby, but several receptionists and nurses witnessed me fighting back the tears and the terror.

The coolest ER doctor on the planet (he had Chewbacca and Boba Fett on his stethoscope!) shone a bright ray of hope and joy into my black pit. After fully examining Monkey’s head, eyes, reflexes and cognitive functions, the doctor told me that a CT scan was not necessary. At worst, Monkey has the mildest of mild concussions.

After that, my alive-and-kicking baby tried to dismantle the gurney and demanded popsicles of everyone who entered the room.

After they sprung us we went out to lunch at his choice and then went grocery shopping. Both the kids were absolutely atrocious at both places and I couldn’t have been happier.

Oh, Monkey has promised us no more back flips! At least until I can get him into gymnastics.

After so many hours containing my abject terror and putting on the brave face, I cried all the way to work, while thanking God for saving my little boy.