Hot on the heels of holiday overindulgence–the new secret to slimming down quickly: 

I always knew that I was wasting my time actually exercising. Finally, a diet for couch potatoes! Plus, all the healthy tanning you can stand for a mere $45/month.

Note that they don’t promise you’ll “lose” inches. You’ll “luze” them, instead. Also, the vacustep “gently modles the figure.” To my count, there are 8 grammatical errors and/or typos in the last paragraph alone. Good thing I can spell..and utilize, the YMCA!

I’m all for the idea of governmental non-interference, but I seriously think that my student loan lendor (in this case the Federal Government) should’ve been legally required to advise me, as an English major, that I would have a greater chance in the future of being struck by lightning than I would of being able to pay my bills with creative writing.

This same law should have gone double for my decision to earn an MFA. Seriously, I think men in suits should have shown up at my door with actuarial tables. “See here: if you continue on your current career track, you will forgo vacations, new cars and the idea of ever being able to afford Christmas presents for anyone outside of your immediate family.” Short of that, I think the Fed should at least mail a letter. “Dear Sucka” might be an appropriate opening.

As far as my creative writing goes, I’ve earned more money writing t-shirts than I have with fiction, plays and screenplays combined. I can write a mean t-shirt. Literally. (See www.zencommandments.com.)  But it does rankle to realize that I simply don’t have the energy to write the shirts, burn the silkscreens, print them by hand and market them with any kind of effectivity. So right now my sole method of marketing is to set up shop at local holiday bazaars.

Allow me to be the first to warn future English majors that they might find themselves on the slippery slope of their thirties selling t-shirts at crafts fairs.

So there I was, yesterday in Buffalo, WY. The crowds were cool. I even met someone who understood what a “fatwa” was. And I also saw, in addition to some good wood carvings and jewelry, a stall featuring imported leather goods with awful fake jewels glued onto it. This look is actually common in this part of the country. My husband named it Christian Cowboy Bling.

It looks like this: A black or brown leather background with generic rhinestones and other fake diadems, often in the shape of a cross. I saw belts, bags, and jackets with this lovely combination on them. I also saw A LOT of money changing hands at those booths and nearly choked to death on my trail mix. Who, I wondered, would spend their hard-earned cash on gaudy Jesus bling when they could order a t-shirt from me with a slogan that combines global warming and fart jokes?

The more bazaars I attend, the more I realize that I don’t know my audience at all. Granted, I can safely guess that a woman with a shiny blue plastic cross on her purse is not going to be pulling her wallet out in my general direction. But I’ve sold to several people with crucifixes around their necks. It’s good, at least, to realize that Jesus has a sense of humor. He would have to, to appreciate that many of his followers are unironically sporting belts with horseheads and his name spelled out in worthless fake rubies and diamonds.

My ambitious plan to stay out past midnight on Halloween was dashed almost as soon as it was hatched. I swore that I could do it more than once a calendar year–I’d have two whole months to recover for New Year’s Eve–but my brain shut down at 9 after a full day of writing and screenprinting T-shirts by hand.

Now, a shut-down brain wouldn’t be a problem in a city. I could zombie-stumble anywhere in New York. But driving 25 miles each way during deer season–no dice. So I offered a contingency plan to my friends: I would meet them at a local place before they took off for the “real” entertainment.

The rented hall was alive with music when I arrived. A five piece band played swinging dance numbers. The guests ranged in age from elementary school kids to retirees. Everyone was in costume. And they all looked like they were having the best time of their lives.

It was spooky how much fun these people looked like they were having, square dancing to a caller in pajamas, strumming a washboard, in a rented hall at 9:30 on a Saturday night. I looked around for Rod Serling–seriously, I did. And I almost wished that I could have that kind of fun, too: innocent, wide-eyed fun. The kind I stopped having at, say, 12 years old.

A piece of me sure wishes that I could go to a local event–ever–and stop thinking about how small town it is. Another part–the larger part–is grateful that I have higher standards for entertainment. I’m sure my idea of fun is somebody else’s idea of rinky-dink. I won’t pretend otherwise. But at least I’m not swinging my partner round and round with a big hayseed grin on my face.

At 9:30 I was already too tired to muster up more than a smirk.

I’ve long suspected that the cruelest cuts come with a kiss. Today it arrived in the form of a Wyoming State Patrolman who let me off the hook for speeding, but then did something far, far worse.

He wrote a citation, all right–because I don’t have a WY driver’s license. Apparently, even though I have a valid NY license, I was supposed to get it changed over within a year of residency. Oops. Guess they forgot to include that tidbit with the welcome package. I could so with one less bucking bronco sticker and one more “Hey, here’s the state law regarding the operation of motor vehicles.” Might help.

Anyway, I get out of the moving violation. Yay! And then I read the citation. Boo! The legalese is all fine and dandy. But the devastaing part was the physical description. He listed my correct hair color, eye color, height…and proceeded to overestimate my weight by thirty pounds.

I wouldn’t even be that heavy if I were pregnant with twins.

Yes, I read and reread that number and it stayed the same. Triple digits. Mocking me. What kind of man charges you $100, makes you part with your NY license and then PUTS DOWN ON PAPER–IN TRIPLICATE–THAT YOU’RE A FATASS? A Wyoming Highway Patrolman, that’s who.

Sadist.

The man looks me in the eyes, tells me he’s giving me a break, and then proceeds to stab me in my neurotic back. (Through which, my ego insists on noting, you can see ribs.)

That’s it! I’m going to court! I must correct this error for the record! Did you not see the NY license? I don’t have country bones! I’m vegan! I do an hour of aerobic and 1,000 crunches a day!

The upshot was that it took me 27 minutes from the time I left my desk at work to drive to the DMV until I exited, temp WY license in hand. That includes the eye test, photo and fee processing. 27 minutes.

I was sad about parting with my home state until I realized how easy it is to get things done around here. I went to the DMV, the courthouse (they may throw out the ticket) the supermarket and the library all on my lunch break. Hey, maybe this country living ain’t so shabby.

So long as I keep my distance from psychologically devasting highway patrolmen, I’ll be fine.

If anyone asks, he was 450 pounds. Give or take.

This afternoon, while on my daily, draining five-mile run, I happened upon an iconic  fantasy: a young woman washing her car in a white tank top. The teenage boy in me got excited. I flashed to the movie Wild Things.

Then she turned around.

This woman looked nothing like Denise Richards! Not only was there a dearth of suds, there was no female friend to help her lather up in just the right places. Worse: she simply didn’t have the goods. Until today, I couldn’t imagine a universe in which ANY female wouldn’t be worth a second glance in a wet, white tank top.

Friends, that universe is Sheridan, WY.

Naturally, this is far from my first experience with a movie/real life disconnect. For starters, my senior prom was no final scene in Sixteen Candles. Nobody has ever played a boom box outside my window like Lloyd Dobler. And I’m still waiting for some hot Dracula to bite me on the neck and turn me into a sexy whore of a vampiress. Truly, I am. But today’s car wash was disappointing on a whole other level. The fantasy seemed so lifelike.

Now I’m going to be forced to re-examine even my seemingly “realistic” fantasies. Such as: making the audience fall in love with me one karaoke evening. Or being able to afford a maid. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know vampires don’t exist. But hot chicks with hoses and sponges? Is that really too much to ask?

…don’t answer that!

Apparently, some drivers in Sheridan, WY can’t distinguish between “dry road” and “wet cement.”

So that’s what those BRIGHT ORANGE SAFETY CONES are for!

Just imagine the expression of the road crew members who have to jackhammer her out….

Is there a dumbass award for soccer moms? (Or is the white mini van enough of a gimme?)

Thanks to Mark Taylor for the photos.

Well, now I’ve seen everything:

“Winner gets meat, hide and head.” Wow. Just–wow.

Well, it looks like Wilbur has had his revenge! If you buy into the fear machine, “the other white meat” is poised to eradicate humanity from the globe.

Personally, I find it strange that the State Department has been trying to keep Americans above the border, issuing travel restrictions, instilling fears about the drug trade and now–suddenly– there’s a major health threat coming from Mexico.

Hmm.

Conspiracies can be quite fun when theyevolve to the level of pandemic! At least this one isn’t killing people at the rate of the CIA’s AIDS. Swine flu is fairly minor, all things considered. But to make up for its lack of actual toxicity, we have plenty of soundbites warning of the disease’s dire return this fall–ie, the time most Americans would want to go back down to Mexico–once the summer heatwave burns off.

As you can see, rural Wyoming isn’t terribly concerned about the source of the sickness. The man and I visited the Johnson County fairgrounds yesterday and discovered their exhibit hall–hilariously behind the times.

Looks like the American princess has fallen from her pedestal to grace the advertisement of a farm supply store:

There are just too many brilliant metaphors here. Do I prefer the juxtaposition of Barbie to Boot Scrubber? Or the not-so-subtle suggestion offered up by her proximity to duct tape? (Along with leather gloves, of course, to hide your fingerprints.) In a single shopping trip, you can purchase West Nile virus vaccine, barb wire, and Barbie.

Congratulations, terrifying vision of femininity, on maintaining your 39-21-33 inch measurements for a half-century.

Too bad you can’t even walk with those dimensions, let alone ride the horse in the ad with you.

Yesterday I caught sight of something that stopped me cold:  I saw three African Americans hanging around the local park, behind the soccer fields. My heart leapt with joy. People of color are moving to Wyoming! In groups! Ordinarily, the only time I see non-whites here is in the summer, when hotels hire Caribbean natives to clean the rooms. 

Unfortunately, the “three African Americans” I saw was in reality a brass sculpture. Of white people.

I’m not even going to begin to blame anything but my failing eyesight for the mistake. In fact, this isn’t the first time I fell prey to a similar snafu–I’m still trying to bury the memory of apologizing to a muscle-bound blue collar sculpture when I stepped on the damn thing’s toe. But I have to say, Sheridan WY is far and away the most sculpture-friendly town I’ve ever lived in.  That is, if you sculpt in brass.  And stick to lifelike representations of, say, a gang of happy folk laughing in the park. A kid catching rain on his tongue. Or a rhinoceros.

I wouldn’t consider myself exactly a patron of the arts, since I only earnmark money in that category to entry fees for writing contests, but I certainly support the arts. In spirit. (Picture a fist-pumping “go, art, go!”) And though I may be the only person in the world to have broken off a relationship in the sculpture garden at the Rodin Museum in Paris, I thoroughly enjoyed everything I saw–even if I’d seen most of it before at the Metropolitan in NYC.

To sum up: yes, of course I like sculpture. But no, I can’t really appreciate it when it’s on EVERY FRIGGING STREETCORNER and it all looks like, well, someone poured a mould of the San Diego zoo. Seriously. It’s impossible to walk past it. People here don’t understand the “dip into the street when the street is too crowded to get past other people” move. So the streetcorners get backed up in the summer, as slow-moving, overfed folk try to finagle past all the brass animals.

It’s overkill. Too many sculptures are–yes, I said it–a bad thing. And I’m not being “sculpturist” either. If the town painted every wall with Monet’s water lillies I would feel the same way. Unless Monet himself came back from the grave and covered up every available space on Main Street from the Beaver Creek Saloon to the Vac-n-Sew with a certain painting of a certain bridge to a certain town named Giverny, I would have to say I come down firmly on the side of “less is more.”

Here’s a concept: let’s build a museum. Then we can house all of our brass in one place. And when it burns down, we could start a foundry! That way, I wouldn’t have to apologize to sculptures, anymore. Or experience my blood pressure rise at the thought that Sheridan might, gasp, be a home to a more integrated population.

I can live with the embarrassment of having bad eyesight. But the disappointment of seeing that I really do live in a white-only world is too much for my poor heart to bear.