Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Who are you calling a Princess?

I’m a girly girl, always have been. I don’t like fishing, hunting or camping, though I admire the women in my life who do.  They are able to bait their own hooks, pull the disgustingly slimy fish off the line, shoot a deer, field dress it and cook up both using an arsenal of creative culinary techniques. It’s reminiscent of those vintage Enjoli advertisements, I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man, cause I’m a woman. Wherein, I’m generally satisfied with Mrs. Paul’s beer battered fish fillets. Which by the way, is itself reminiscent of the smell of Enjoli.
Hunting in Wisconsin is more than a pastime or a hobby. When the season opens, work comes to a standstill.  Good luck finding a contractor during that week, unless you have some land “up north” with a few deer stands in it, you’re not likely to see one. They sit in these rickety old stands, generally alone, in minus twenty-fuck degrees. They don’t realize when hypothermia is about to set in because along with their weapons of choice, they have packed enough liquor to sustain that fine line between being drunk off your ass and being drunk on your ass. It’s not uncommon to see photos of them passed out at the top of a tree with a cigar in one hand and a rifle in the other. Does anybody else see this as dangerous?  I like to imagine the woodland animals with makeshift cameras and tiny reading glasses hiding behind rocks while taking detailed notes on the peculiar habitats of these large orange creatures:

It continues to drink from the bottle, causing loud noises to pass from the regions of its mouth and buttocks, the latter of which sends off an odor of most foul proportion.  Have not been able to identify a pattern to these guttural sounds, thus have ruled out the theory of a mating call.

Be that as it may. Here I am, living among the large orange creatures. I am certain I was communicating with one who happened to be on duty that night in Walworth County. He opened the door of my cell, handed me a blanket so thin it folded up to the size of a cell phone and pointed me in the direction of the green vinyl mat that would serve as my bed for the night. Just before he closed the door, I asked if he might possibly have forgotten to give me my pillow. The look he gave me was something along the lines of, boys, we got another one. “No princess, I did not forget your pillow.”

There is a big difference between a girl who doesn’t care for camping and a girl who is a princess.  I don’t like roughing it, woman against nature, but I also don’t need to be pampered. I’m not one to volunteer to sleep in a place with no running water but then again, I’m no prima donna.  After all, I survived my childhood.


  1. I would still be a princess myself if the idea of horse poop getting stuck under sculptured nails didn't gross me out so much.
    Oh, and in November, we're going to a meeting together whether you like it or not. I will email with the details.

  2. I made the decision awhile ago to not be offended at being called a princess, because I can name so many good princess character role models that it shouldn't be an insult. Sure, he meant it as an insult because he's a fucking stereotypical idiot, but if wanting a pillow makes you a princess, then shit. Princess me up.

    There's the argument that so many people out there don't have a pillow to sleep on and because of that we shouldn't expect to have the same luxury (the starving people in China conundrum). To that I say: sure, but you can't expect someone to react complacently to a drastic change in lifestyle, however temporary. You can expect them to handle it with grace, with humility, with anger, with humor. But complacency? We are not fucking cattle. We demand to be treated otherwise. I say, "Is it my fault I'm in a cell? Yes. It is my fault that he's a dick who uses words that are too big for him to understand? No. That's his damage."