Guffman Is So Not Coming.

Growing up in a small town in the seventies, before the internet, was to me, isolating. I dreamed of Michael Jackson's limo breaking down on the edge of our town. I envisioned him "going for a ride" through our town and noticing me. Pulling over to ask me questions about this quiet place. And then... drum roll, really looking at me. And deciding I was so beautiful that I would need to join him for the rest of his tour. Which of course would lead to my appearance in some videos, then tv shows, and ultimately, the movies. Fame. Wealth. The works.
In reality, I have never liked the stage. I have opted to be somewhat of a loner. I am as vain as I can stand and I could barely accept the attention I received at my wedding, which was all of thirty people. So this dream career as a movie star is really outside my comfort zone. Except for the wealth part. And really, I don't want to be RICH rich, just rich enough to not be in any debt.
Fame is different. Because, really, there are thousands of ways you can BE famous. I think being a famous writer would result in some kind of neurosis. All those NPR interviews. Thick stressing of silly words, "I DO, I DO, feel so DEEPLY of the CHARACTER'S connection to cake BATTER, as the metaphor for LIFE is so SO conslusive!". No thanks.
Fame for sports would be okay, I suppose. But then you would always be... dirty. It's a respectable kind of fame. It takes hard work and dedication. But then what would be the point if you only ever wore yoga pants or tennis skirts? To me, part of the "trade-off" to fame is the wardrobe and the red carpet and the jewels and all that sparkly pink stuff. So famous athlete would never do.
Fame for TV or Movies is just too lonely. Those Hollywood types, even the ones that are just in the "inspiring to be" stage, seem to be so driven and self-motivated, that they can hardly stand to be truly supportive of each other without stepping into a private bathroom and bitching out thier manager for not letting THEM know about the once availabe-but-now-filled role the "friend" got. And then let's not even get INTO the 'ole career is on the decline business. The celebrity has-been reality shows. Because if you are like me when one of those shows is on you sit around and say to yourself, who IS that? And WHY are they doing this awful show?
I don't even let myself consider famous singer or dancer. Those talents are as far away from me as Jupiter. I sing like a tone-deaf man and I dance, well.... I dance like a small town white girl who forgot her rhythm "back at the barn". If you think Elaine is bad, you should see me after four beers and some Euro-tech comes pounding in. Clear the floor ladies and gentlemen, or you MAY get hurt. And oh yeah, my lack of talent has NEVER stopped me from busting down a groove. When people stare I give them my personal catch phrase, " Dancing is a celebration of life, not a competition". And then I give them one of my signature hip-twirl moves, arms above my head, and knees knocked and cocked at an angle only a pretzel maker could have envisioned.
The bottom line is, I don't really think I am cut out for fame. Fortune, maybe, but fame, no way.

Corn What?

Sunday I awoke to a beautiful crisp Fall day. The agenda was empty and the energy level was high. Before I could hear myself think right I asked ( begged) my husband if he would take me to a corn maze. That's right- a corn maze.

Growing up in a corn-town, it was every adolescent's rite of passage to rise before dawn, garn a garbage bag and old tennis shoes, board a bus with a cooler full of Gatorade, and head out to the fields to pick and pull the tassels off the top of the wet, sharp-edged corn stalks.

It was brutal work and paid slightly more than minumum wage. The "season" would last from 1-5 weeks and your schedule was unpredictable. But at the end of the summer, you and all of your friends walked away with a few hundred bucks in the bank, some serious corn-leaf scars, and a knowledge of corn that would leave you recieving odd stares anytime you dropped a "corn fact".

So a few years back when the corn-maze concept began to sweep the midwest, I was intrigued. Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to garner the interest of my fellow city folk to actually drive the one hour from the Chicago with me to explore any such thing.

Therefore, it has been one of my secret burning desires. To go to a corn-maze. I never said I was hard to please OR exciting...

So off we went, with our maps and coffees and high expectations.

There were actually THREE mazes to go through. One being a pirate, the other two McCain and Obama. As we neared the entrance to the first one, the pirate, I could feel my heart start to race. I retied my shoes. I hiked up my jeans. I took a deep breath. We waited in line for our turn and were asked if we would like the one dollar map.
"Why, yes!! " I exclaimed with reckless abandon. "Umm, Billy, do you have a dollar? Will you give her a dollar?"

We set off.... looking at our map directing us to the first of ten "clue posts".

Maybe right around now I would look around myself and realize that most of the patrons were under the age of 10. But no.

Within about ten feet we found the first "clue post"...

Hmm, that was easy.

The cleverly written clue, while cute and "pirate-y", was basic. Something like...
"Ahoy my friend, take a right to get to the end".

I looked at the ground.

The correct "paths" were thick slabs of matted down mud.

The incorrect "paths" were freshly plowed field.

Hmmm. I think we follow the slabs of matted mud. Don't you honey?

Things were fairly anti-climactic from there. We sort of race-walked the rest of the way through. When we neared the first finish, I asked Billy if we should try the other two. His response, " I think we have seen enough, don't you? "

I had to admit, we had.

Not that the corn-maze wasn't great fun and nice date with my husband on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. It's just that I think it was actually more fun to detassle the corn than walk on a path through it.

Small Town

So I still get the weekly newspaper from my hometown. And I love perusing it. Because I might see someone I know had a baby, and also because it makes me feel peaceful. And the news we watch around Chicago makes you think that most people are felons and walk around bus stops with knives and loaded guns ready to shoot you because you are wearing black, or red, or black AND red. But it's not true. Because sometimes, headline news CAN be: Hazzard Car Comes to Town. And then makes sure that just because you were not around for the "Dukes" you are not lowly and out of the loop , and they even clarify that the Hazzard County car was from a TV show in the 70's. And it's perfectly normal if you missed that era of culture and need to know who the Duke boys were. I always thought Luke was better.
I love taking people to the town I grew up in. Because you can leave your keys in the ignition of your car at night and you can ask your neighbor to come over for a beer. You can strike up a conversation with basically anyone and come away knowing that the cashier at Hy-vee is actually a friend of your uncle's brother once removed who you went to high school with. And the people are friendly.
And for every mudflap you see there is also some bona fide quaintness. Plus, massages are only forty-five dollars an hour. Tempts you to ask for TWO... in a row. But it's gluttony so you just don't.
My husband and I just spent a week there over the summer and he was mesmerized. And I was also mesmerized by looking at life through his view.
When we went to get an oil change, the "oil changer guy" was at the gas station next door and came running back saying..." I am coming!" and he had drink in his hand because what you would get fired for around here is deemed as contented there. And of course, when we left the oil change place and went to fuel up at the gas station next door, the cashier revealed that yesterday was such a bad day that she just ended up getting drunk and today was hungover. And wouldn't you know, she was also the OWNER. Of the gas station. But not to worry, it really was just a bad day and really she didn't normally drink on the weekdays but it was a terribly bad day. And she was so real I wanted to reach over the counter and hug her. For being real... not hungover. ( But I am not big on touching so of course, I didn't! )
And then there was our friend Stan. A friend of my parents' who was willing and able at the stroke of a quick phone call to literally invited us over to "show us the farm", because my husband didn't grow up around here and this would be a real slice.
So Stan showed us everything from the tractors to the corn bin and even chewed up kernels of corn right off the stalk to show us how he tests it's readiness. He explained the Japanese beatles were chewing up his end rows of soy beans but that was okay, because he figures that might happen and well, he prepared for them. And when it was over we sat on his porch drinking his Pennysylvania beer ( imported especially because he really liked it) and he didn't mind sharing the last of his special beer with us at all.
And now, back in the 'burbs, I sit here in our condo. Thinking it would be really nice to sit outside on a porch swing and strike up some chit chat with our neighbors. The twilight conversation you get when you live in a small town and have yards without fences. And nieghbors whose pasts you know as well as the back or your hand. And the peace of mind to know that even without your make-up and Mark Jacobs' gear that you are appreciated for exactly who you are. Even in your pajama pants.
It's a really nice life.