I started to draft a little post regarding simplicity for the Sunday Scribble people and the more I worked on it the more complicated it became so I decided to just write in a stream of consciousness style about the word Simple. Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?

Attempting to live a simplified life seems to be the next step in attaining peace and a certain spirituality. There are shelves of books about ‘keeping it simple’, some of them quite complex. Of course picking up these books would add to the clutter and chaos.

“Real Simple” is a magazine we get – I saw a copy of it at my chiropractors and in weak moment, thinking I could reach Nirvana, (the state not the band) by subscribing to this magazine, I ordered it. Now the back issues lay scattered through out the house - the subscription has run its course and every other day I get a not so simple notice that I must renew my subscription or my simple life will implode with complexity. I’m not so certain that making window cleaner out of dog urine is such a simple thing anyway so I will let the subscription lapse.

As a young boy I read the Little House series…yes boys read the book too- you want to read something "peculiar" in that? Anyway, I thought to myself “Oh to live in a simpler time just like the Ingal’s family” I said this in my best Scarlet O’Hara accent, which might be a little "peculiar". Remember how simple their Christmas’ were? - A shiny red apple was one of their presents. Laura got a little doll that Pa made out of an ear of corn and Mary got the bladder of a pig blown up like a balloon. What a simple and lovely life…yea that sounds like a crap Christmas to me. If anyone gave me a doll made out of corn I’d give them some frozen pea “diamonds” or an empty cigarette box "iPod" so they could listen to Alabama (The band not the state). They were so happy in these simpler times that is until Little Mary got struck blind by a some disease like brain fever something you might catch from the bladder of a pig…..

Ok I’m trailing off here. This stream of consciousness business is way too complicated for me.

I always enjoyed the metaphor of the mask. The mask we wear to hide our true selves, the mask we are afraid to let down.

As I've grown older it seems less of a metaphor. The many "masks" I have to wear and choose to wear are all me- they aren't masks at all- just different aspects of one more complex individual, as we all are.

It may be easier to accept the many, often contradictory personas of who I am with the metaphor of a mask, but in truth I am all these things. Maybe the frightening thing isn't that the mask hides our true selves, maybe the unsettling thing is that we are the mask. It is just another aspect of our true selves.

My great grandfather boarded a ship in the late 1800’s and crossed the ocean. He sailed from Europe to America in search of a better life.

Several generations later a number of his descendents have boarded planes and moved back to Europe, also in search of a better life.

What lies beyond the ocean has always fascinated us. We expect a better life than the one we leave- it will be better “over-there” and while this may be true in some cases I suspect that in the majority of instances there is little to no change other than geography. The old saying still holds true- wherever you go there you are.

I don’t know how much my great grandfather’s life really changed- certainly his children and his children’s children have found what he sought, but I don’t know that he did.

If I truly want change when I move to France I will need to not only change the landscape but I will also need to reassess what is happening within me. Complacency is the kiss of death to meaningful change.

In 1986 I flew to Ireland with my family. It was my first time in Europe and I was hooked. My world grew with that first trip. A year later I was in Spain, driving cross-country. I wanted to absorb everything. I wanted to be a part of the culture although I knew that was impossible. There was a dry spell in my travels for about 10 years when my life fell apart and slowly was rebuilt. I came back with a vengeance, six times to Europe in the past 6 years. We scrimp, save and do without for the sake of travel. As regular readers of this blog know, France holds a special place in our hearts; we’ve been there three times and will move to Paris in August.

When I first visited France it was the beginning of the war. French- American relations were at an all time low. A woman and I were watching the movie stars drive up for their big walk up the red carpet at Cannes Film Festival- She asked where I was from and how I enjoyed France. I was overwhelmed with her country and all it had to offer but that I was a little nervous about the perception of the French to me as an American. “No one blames the American people for the war- it’s the politicians, it’s always the politicians” I’ll always remember that brief, kind exchange. In Paris, two years later, I was treated to a different kind of person, one that hated Americans. It’s hard to argue with someone who feels all Americans are fat, rich, war mongers etc- I don’t even bother to argue with this kind of ignorance when I’m a guest in another country. In my own country I do discuss it I have not found that many people who hate the French, but I know they are out there. The few that have questioned why I would want to live in France general will cite every old stereotype and cliché they can think of to explain why they don’t like the French. Invariably the people that rely on these stereotypes of hatred have, generally, never been out of their own little world. They have no interest in leaving the safety of their own counties, their own little worlds and their own comfort zone. These people, and I find them very annoying, are always the loudest and speak the most but know the least.

What I have learned throughout my travels is that there are ignorant assholes in every country, but that there are many more kind and interesting people in these same countries. I, too, fell into the stereotype of the rude Parisian. When we first visited Paris, the bathroom in a café perplexed my wife. It was just a hole in the floor with two places for her feet. Having never seen this set up she asked a woman, in broken French, how this all worked. The woman explained in French and in pantomime. My wife looked dubiously at the hole and her ability to balance. The French woman held my wife’s hands so she could keep her balance while she used the bathroom. Anytime someone suggests the French are rude I tell them that story and then I suggest they visit New York City*.

*The woman, for all I know, could have been Canadian but the story wouldn’t be as much fun. Canadians are awfully nice people.

Like most others, I want to put down roots- find the home, raise the family, be connected to the community. These are the things that I associate with being rooted. I've been pondering this idea of being rooted since it was brought up on Sunday Scribbles.

I was raised in a family that was rooted to each other. We were rooted to the home, the community, the church, our Irish heritages. When I think of being rooted I think of safety and connection. Who would argue that these are bad things? Can being too rooted too deeply be a hindrance?Perhaps being these roots can also be an anchor that keeps us from change.

I wrote about my parents selling the house that I grew up in and the understandable sadness for me that followed that sale. My parents had the right idea, they are in their late 70's and those roots had become burdensome. Two people getting along in years don't need a large, 105 year old house that is in constant need of repair. They moved to a small manageable apartment downtown- a guy changes their light bulbs when they burn out. They are still rooted but they have another place to grow. I am so connected to my roots that I would not have sold the house- those deep roots would have kept me firmly in place and not allowed me to do the next right thing. These roots, which are meant to be good, would have instead become an anchor for me.

Anyone who has followed this blog is aware of the never ending story of K- and I selling everything and moving to Paris. The main obstacle in this scary/ exciting adventure is the thought of tearing up the small roots we have nurtured and following an uncertain dream. How many people forgo the dream to keep the roots from being disturbed? Which is more important the roots or the dream? I truly don't know the answer to these questions but I suspect I will find out in August when those roots are pulled.

What I hope to find is that the roots are within- that I will always be rooted to my family, my community and my heritage. What I would like to discover is that, in a spiritual sense, it is impossible to be uprooted.

Sunday Scribble prompt is Secret Identity. It scares me that I actually have 3 things to say on this topic. I’ll draw a blank on the elections, internet civility and avian flu but secret identities I have a few thoughts.

1. I thought a secret identity would be important when I started a blog so I picked “Misplaced in the Midwest” because “Lost in the Midwest” was taken and I was too tired to come up with a new name. Truth be told, I’m neither Misplaced nor Lost but I am in the Midwest so I’m only half a liar. I’m not certain why I thought I needed a fake name, I didn’t think I’d be fired for blogging, I’m in an industry where there are generally two types of people, those going into drug rehab and those just getting out of drug rehab. I haven’t done either in a very long time so I am a shining star in my profession. I think that I created a secret identity for this blog because I truly believed that thousands upon thousands would clamor to read my words and that was the best way to shield myself from the throng of fans. Of course, there aren’t thousands of fans there aren’t even tens of fans and what little secret identity I have is ruined by my posting my picture or hearing my wife saying to an 80 year old Aunt “…its spelled M-I-S-P-L-A-C-E-D” at a family gathering. Auntie will be delighted when she reads I urinated on myself one drunken evening years ago (long before a became a shining star in my profession).

2. All my friends have cool spy aliases. The only name I could come up with was Cricket McGraith. I was informed by my cool friends (but really how cool can you be if you have a fake spy name?) that Cricket McGraith doesn’t steal state secrets and he doesn’t bed Eastern European woman. Cricket McGraith does pick out drapes and re-arranges your furniture in a tasteful manner- Cricket McGraith does track lighting. My friend down the street suggested that I just change my spy name to Mittens McNeill and get it over with. I’d have sent him an angry letter but my spy decoder ring is all gummed up.

3. I have always felt that everyone needs a secret identity including fake passport, license, credit cards, etc. I would also like to have few thousand dollars squirreled away just in case ‘the shit’ goes down. I don’t know what ‘the shit’ might be but if I ever decide to commit a serious crime I’d like to have all the paperwork in order to elude justice. I’m far too handsome to do time and besides that’s how Cricket McGraith rolls.

A little over a year ago K- and I decided to get rid of cable TV. It was a difficult decision to make, neither one of us realized how addictive television can be.

The first week I would come home from work and stare at our blank set- not knowing what do with myself. TV, of course, isn’t good or bad its just a thing but my viewing habits had become disturbing. E Entertainment and Access Hollywood run non-stop information on the likes of Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Brad Pitt etc. and, this is where it gets disturbing, I would watch. I’d put off going to bed so I could view how the rich and famous were living their lives. Celebrity news is like crack, just a little bit more and I’ll be satiated, but more is always needed. Standing in line at the check out counter, People and Us magazine turned upside downs and mixed with the other groceries in hopes of disguising my reading habits. I bought Entertainment magazines with the same shame that I bought condoms as a teenager. Britney, Paris, Lindsey, Brad and Angelina, my news didn’t need to mention their last names, I knew them by their first names only, just as I knew my friends.

I have a theory that this type of news drains the soul. It is designed to have us live vicariously through other people- it slowly teaches us that they are interesting and we are not, they are rich and we are not, they are beautiful and we are not, They are everything and we are nothing. There is a withdrawal period when you stop watching entertainment news but slowly you begin to see through the haze. You pick up a book or you take a walk with a loved one. You begin to realize that you were continuously feeding on candy with no nutritional value and that instead of rotting your teeth it was rotting your mind.

Other than movies we rent, the TV generally stays off. Paris, Britney, Lindsey, Brad and Angelina will need to live their lives without my participation. I’m sure we will all be fine (except Britney, I’m worried sick about her).


After I posted this on Sunday Scribbles it seemed vaguely familiar. I worried that I read a similiar post from another blogger and accidently rehashed it on my own blog. After researching it I found that I had written a similiar post 4 months ago- I am a walking example of why people shouldn't drink to excess.

I've never been a fan of jewelry for men. For me there is a vanity that is associated with this that I've never wanted to project, much like the wearing of cologne.

But when I was younger I had an obsession for puzzle rings. I don't know if they even still make these. It was a gold ring made up of 5 or 6 thin bands which were braided together. These could be unbraided but you had to know how to put it back together- which would explain the 'puzzle' aspect of the ring. I never could put them back together but was fortunate to have a hippy chick who lived down the street which would reassemble it for me. She tried to teach me, but to know avail. Of course, why learn if a pretty hippy chick will do it for you.

There was only one place I knew to get them and that was the Cupboard, which was a headshop one neighborhood over for us. It seems to me that I spent a fair amount of time at the Cupboard in my younger years. Wippets were legal then (at least I think they were) and that was a good place to get them. I doubt that my parents were aware of the places we spent our days. We left the house in the morning, came in for a peanut and jelly sandwich for lunch and returned for dinner, there was not a lot of unnecessary supervision. This taught us independence, leadership, how to smoke cigarettes at an early age,and where in the woods one could usually find an old Playboy Magazine.

It's fun to think back on the days when my life was no more confusing than how to reassemble a puzzle ring and help came in the form of a pretty hippy girl.

I put a new dress on this post for Sunday Scribbles


Updates: A few comments have arisen regarding what a wippet is. In retrospect I probably could have done without including it in the post. A wippet is a small canister of nitrous oxide. You would fill a balloon with the nitrous oxide (using a wippet dispenser) and inhale. The late 70's were little silly.

When I was a young boy I was prone to crushes. I remember once reading a true story and falling in love with the main character whose name was Nancy. She was beautiful, courageous and strong. The artist that drew her used simple charcoal strokes that made my young heart flutter.

The story progressed through her early years, her life in the wilderness with her family, her trials and tribulations. My heart broke as a tall gangly fellow began to court her and she seemed to be as taken with him as he with her. I retreated to my room when they married. “I just don’t feel well mom.” I said, trying to hold back the tears, when she asked what was wrong. I realized Nancy would never be mine when she gave birth. I managed to move on.

I guess I should be happy for her, she lived a good, long life and her son grew up to be the 16th president of the United States, but I can’t help but think she would have been happier with me.

Yes, I had a boyhood crush on Abraham Lincoln’s mother.

Chronicles

Our individual stories are massive. It would take volumes to retell them. The amount of luck and fortitude it took between the first vibration in the primordial ooze to the moment where I sit in front of this computer eating a cookie is staggering. It is daunting to consider the impossibility of each individual alive today. It makes me think that I ought to treat myself to nice cookies.

I bought a house 8 years ago. It was in a neighborhood that was going from bad to worse but it was my first house and it was what I could afford. The house had been owned by an older woman who died and was then abandoned for sometime. When I moved in, there was very little remaining, in the shed, behind the house, was the usual clap-trap of unwanted, discarded items. An old sewing machine with foot peddles, beat up chairs, broken lamps and several boxes containing some possessions of the deceased woman. Inside the boxes were rosaries, bibles written in German, old black and white photographs, a diary and letters spanning many years.

These items should have been handed down to the next generation but I suspect there was no one left. The woman that had lived here was the end of her line. She was the last chapter of that family chronicle. As with any well written book, it is sad to reach the end but each story is written with the knowledge that it must, at some time, cease.

We should all remember to treat ourselves to nicer cookies.

What is fantasy?
The first thing that comes to mind is sexual, but I don't think I want to go there. There is a website called M-dwest M@ndy. People end up on my site looking for Miss M@ndy- Mandy doesn't wear a shirt in her blog. I, on the other hand, do. I don't suspect that the men who are looking for M-dwest M@ndy are having their fantasies fulfilled by my blog. M-dwest M@ndy is comfortable with herself, or M-dwest M@ndy is incredibly uncomfortable with herself, I don't know.

Fantasy is creative imagination- I looked it up. Fantasy is a daydream all gussied up. It's a daydream with its shoes shined, its hair combed back and the pantleg breaks, just so, at the shoe.

Daydreams I have.

I dream that I could make a living being creative.
I dream thatI could quit my job.
I dream...
I dream...
I dream...

The line between dreams and living in a fantasy world can be tricky. I can focus so long on a fantasy world that my actual existence will appear dull and common in comparison. I was never so discontent as when I was deep in fantasy- I drank, did drugs and watched a lot of TV to disappear in a fantasy world that could never exist.

When I stopped all of those things, I was left with my world as it truly is- I then had to learn to be content with reality. I still dream, but dreaming without attempting to attain that dream is spiritual suicide.

Men that dream that M-dwest M@ndy is theirs live sad, small, unfulfilled lives.

Ideas are good, aren't they?

As I thought about this topic I hear myself saying "I have an idea..." and trying to remember what has followed. Its odd that, generally, what follows has not been a good idea. It's similar to saying, "Hey y'all watch this" after drinking too much whiskey. What follows will never be good.

As kids we made little parachutes for our hamsters, Sonny and Cher, and threw them out the 3rd floor window. the beat may go on but, alas, Sonny and Cher did not. That was a bad idea- but we honestly thought it would work and that the hamsters would love it. So maybe the idea was good but the execution was flawed. Deep down inside I still suspect that all hamsters would love to parachute or hang glide given the opportunity. Around the same decade I drank vanilla extract because it smelt yummy. That was also a bad idea but if something smells that good it should taste as good.

When I was in college (good idea) I did a Pete Townsend jump under a door-frame (bad idea). I met Pete Townsend in the south of France and spoke with him (good idea) and I told him about the shaved head and stitches that resulted from copying him (bad idea) He moved away slowly and didn't make eye contact (probably a good idea).

I'm thinking about selling everything, quitting my job and moving to Paris to write for a year (good idea). I'm thinking about selling everything, quitting my job and moving to Paris to write for a year (bad idea).

There aren't good ideas or bad ideas, there are only ideas- the things that come about from mental masturbation*. Whether we chose to act upon these ideas is where the good or bad will enter.

*...and yes using the term 'mental masturbation' was a bad idea but naming our hamsters Sonny and Cher was a worse idea

The Kiss




I fell in love 3 years ago.

I saw this woman at a function and was absolutely smitten. She, of course, was dating a fine looking man and they appeared happy but that didn't stop me from admiring her from afar.

We had mutual friends and would see each other upon occasion, at parties, coffee houses etc. When she and her boyfriend broke up I could not get the nerve to ask her out. She was just too beautiful and funny.

One evening we met with a few people at a restaurant. She and I spoke the entire evening. There is that moment, at the end of the evening, when you are certain that there is mutual attraction. I walked her to her car, I was nervous but was determined to kiss her at least on the cheek. As I bent in to kiss her she did the same but somehow our arms got interlaced in a weird manner, I went to kiss her cheek and she went for my lips. The bottom line is that are first kiss resembled more of a head lock than anything romantic.

We were married two years later. We kissed on the beach of Cape Cod to seal our union. A perfect, loving kiss.