This Independence Day, I thought we should take a look back at the reason why we celebrate this glorious day.

America was discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1492, when he set off on a sailing trip to India and took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.  Columbus, who was not known for his political correctness, called the natives he met “Indians” and ran in to Ponce De Leon, who was looking for the Fountain of Youth.  As history tells us, Oil of Olay was not yet invented, and Ponce would know the disgrace of saggy, wrinkled skin.  Columbus tried to tell him that the key to youthful skin was staying hydrated, but Ponce was a stubborn old goat.  Tragically, he would die an untimely death some years later of chronic crows’ feet.

Some folks in England decided to check out Columbus’s new country for themselves, so they sailed for the Americas and settled in Roanoke, VA.  This colony soon became the first entry in the country’s rich history of urban legends, when all of its inhabitants were wiped out by a particularly aggressive tribe of vampires.

Not willing to accept defeat lightly, the English sent more people to settle this brand new land, armed with better supplies and sharpened stakes.  In 1620, this group crashed in to Plymouth Rock, and a new settlement was born.

Why they picked New England instead of moving further south where, as everyone knows, the climate is more temperate and the taxes are lower, is beyond me.  But they stayed, and that first winter, half of them died of frostbite.  They were certainly an adventurous people, but maybe not particularly bright.

 Once the colonists got settled and learned the value of warm clothing and portable heaters, Parliament decided that the colonists were having a little too much fun in their frat house of a new country.  So they decided to tax their tea.  This was a huge mistake.  The colonists dumped all the tea in Boston Harbor and swore that from that moment on, we would be a nation of coffee drinkers.  This was a very fortunate turn of events for one particular colonist, Sir Duncan Donets.

The King of England responded by sending a bunch of military folk to try and figure out who dumped all the tea, and by – you guessed it – taxing even morestuff.

This is the most important part.  America does NOT like to be told what to do, particularly by a fat old king who had no idea how particularly brutal the winters in New England are without snow tires.  The colonists got their best writer, Thomas Jefferson, to whip up a Declaration of Independence.  They came up with a catchy war slogan – “no taxation without representation” – and picked up their muskets and pitchforks and fought the British.  And even though we were a tiny, newborn nation, with few people and fewer weapons, we won.  While bookies around the world were stunned, America knew we’d had it in us all along.  So they set off fireworks and had a big cookout, a tradition we carry on in this fine nation to this day.

Some of my facts might not be entirely right (and the ones that are stand as a testament to Schoolhouse Rock!) but you get the gist of it – Independence Day is a pretty big deal.  So go out, grill some hot dogs, and take pride in our country – it’s our big day!

Happy Birthday, America!

It was really no coincidence that I dressed up as Marilyn Monroe this past Halloween.  I’ve found that she and I have so much in common, it’s uncanny.

Marilyn and I both get (or got) our blonde out of a bottle - she because platinum was popular, me because gray is decidedly not.  She was known for her beauty and comedic ability, just as I like to think I am.  She starred in How to Marry a Millionaire, and I have often wished I married a millionaire.
 
But wait.  The coincidences don’t end there.  It has been said many times that Marilyn was a size sixteen at one point.  I have been a size sixteen many times in my life.  She was married to Yankee Joe DiMaggio.  That makes both of us Yankees fans. Marilyn’s second husband was playwright Arthur Miller, author of Death of a Salesman – a play I’ve read.  Twice.

Spooky, right?  It’s like I’m writing about my twin, practically.  But there’s more!

When Marilyn was young, it’s rumored that she slept with Marlon Brando.  I would have loved to sleep with a young Marlon Brando.  And Marilyn, of course, was in the buff with both Jack and Bobby Kennedy.  I am personally a huge Kennedy buff!  (Go ahead!  Ask me anything about any of them! Unless you ask me a dirty question – then I would have to read Marilyn’s diary to find the answer.)

Really, we have so much in common; I’m surprised people don’t confuse me with her more often.
 
Or ever.  

Just once would be nice.

In honor of Father’s Day, I thought I’d write about my Dad, or as I like to call him (never to his face) Poppa Bear.

My father has taught me many lessons in life, including the importance of not dating anyone who works on your father’s farm because your Dad has heard them talk and they’re all pigs.  He also taught me things like how I’m not going to leave the house in a skirt that barely covers my butt, and how I am never going to take that tone with him again.

In all seriousness, my father is a pretty awesome guy.  He’s kind-hearted; he can start up conversations with complete strangers; and he can build houses, fix cars, trap wildlife, and shoot deer like nobody’s business.  The amazing thing is that he seems to be completely unaware that the rest of us regard him as something like Superman.

Dad has taught me how to tie a hook, cast a line, and filet a fish, so I will never starve.  (An odd side effect of this skill – I was never without a date, either.)  He has taught me about expense ratios, mutual funds, and Morningstar ratings, so I can understand what to do with my 401(k) and my IRA.  (An odd side effect of this skill – again, never at a loss for a date. However, the quality of guy that was asking me out improved.)  He showed me how to change a car battery, car tire, and how to re-mount the rear view mirror – all things every woman should know.  And he taught me how to prepare venison so that it’s so tender, it melts in your mouth (not that we’re big venison eaters at our house, but it’s a handy talent to have).

Most importantly, Dad has taught me how to handle myself in any social situation, how to talk to strangers and leave as friends, how to be patient with people who love to talk on and on, and how to be kind to people who are unsure of themselves.  He is better at all of these things than I am, but thankfully, I’m still learning from him.

He also taught me that it’s never a good idea to walk barefoot through warm cow manure.  That’s just not sanitary, people.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

We have all been raised in a culture in which Disney has been synonymous with family fun and wholesome entertainment.  I don’t quite know why this should be, as Disney films in particular can be pretty darn terrifying.  Why Old Walt has been able to avoid his true genre label for this long is baffling.  This is not a man who promoted bluebirds and happiness.  This is a man who made horror movies.

Bambi, for instance.  My mother took us to see this when it was rereleased in 1982, and it terrified the bejeepers out of me.  Up until this point, I’d had no idea that mothers could die.  I’d thought they were magical entities that would live forever.  Until Bambi’s mom was shot by hunters.  

One of the things I’ve had to adjust to in my marriage is our very different views on wildlife.  Jason seems fascinated by every critter that wanders through the back yard.  I, on the other hand, am most decidedly not.
Just about every day, he will point out something that has found its way to our back lawn.  “Look, honey! Rabbits!  Aren’t they cute?”
“They’re in the garden,” I’ll point out.
“I know!  Look how adorable that little gray one is with the white spot on his nose.”
“That adorable bunny has lettuce breath. And he’s leaving little piles of poop pebbles in the carrot patch.  Fetch me the BB gun.”  
Honestly, it’s a rabbit.  If it were a duck-billed platypus, of course I’d appreciate it more.  But I still wouldn’t want it destroying our garden.
Jason also likes to stop and admire the deer that will wander into the yard and nibble on the apple blossoms.  Sometimes, he even takes pictures of them.
“Look what was out the kitchen window this morning,” he’ll say, all proud of himself as he shows me an image of a mother doe and her two tiny fawns.  “A little family of deer.  Aren’t they sweet?”
“They’re dropping Lyme disease ticks all over our lawn!  Why didn’t you shoot them?”  He never has a logical response to that. I tell you, it’s frustrating as heck.
His weird appreciation for all living creatures is not limited to the destructive wildlife that camp out in our garden.  “Stacey!  Come quick!” he shouted one day, interrupting me as I was reading Teddy Kennedy’s autobiography, right at the Chappaquiddick part.  I put the book down, thinking he’d severed a body part while making a sandwich.
“Are you okay?”  I asked, breathless from hobbling down the stairs (my knee still isn’t healed, and physical activity has never been my strong suit “Did you lose a finger?  A toe?”

He pointed to a black spot on the kitchen floor, and I squinted to see it clearly.  It was a big, fat, hairy spider.

“Have you ever seen a spider like that?  Those colors are amazing – and I think it might be a jumping spider!  Look at that leg span. That may well be the most amazing arachnid I’ve ever seen.  I just had to share it with you.  Look at the shape of that abdomen.  Do you think its some sort of rare species?”
“I think it’s dead,” I said, squashing it.  Honestly, who wants bugs in their house?  Gross!

It’s not that I don’t appreciate God’s creatures.  I do. Really, nothing would excite me more than spotting a coyote in the back yard.  First of all, that would certainly solve our problems with the rabbits and the woodchucks.  Second of all, the neighbor has a yappy dog that he leaves on his back patio all night, and the coyote could solve that little problem, too.  Show me a nice carnivore in the neighborhood, and you’ll see my appreciation for wildlife blossom.

Our cats stay indoors, of course.  But the next time Pugsley barfs up a hairball in my slipper, it might be nice to be able to threaten to feed him to the coyotes. It’s not like I would actually do it.  Good Heavens – I’m not barbaric!