I hath drunk from thy healing waters, Princess Owatonna

My parents are relatively trustworthy people. However, when their college friends come over for the weekend and storytime rolls around after a few beers/dirty martinis, I think I have a valid reason to trust them less.  This is what went down that night, as they recounted their many visits to the guys’ hometown, Owatonna, Minnesota:

MOM’S FRIEND: Oh God, did they ever make you drink from the Owatonna Princess?

DAD: Those are some healing waters, right there!

MOM: Oh yes. I had to drink from the Princess.

DAD’S FRIEND: And she was healed of all her infirmities!

[They all laugh. I stare. The conversation shifts.]

ME: Whoa, hang on. Wait a second. What is this Princess fountain?

DAD: You’ve never drunk from the Owatonna Princess fountain?

ME: Nope.

DAD: Yes you have! Of course you’ve drunk from the Owatonna Princess! You’re my son, and Schroeder boys drink from the Princess.

DAD’S FRIEND: Healing waters!

[Smirks. Snickers.]

ME: No, I haven’t.

DAD: Are you sure?

ME: I swear by the Princess herself.

DAD & HIS FRIEND: SWEAR NOT BY THE PRINCESS!  

MOM’S FRIEND: Ugh. I refused to drink from the Owatonna Princess. It was too gross and I’m not that kind of lady.

DAD: Well you need to. How do you expect to ever experience the fullness of joy without drinking from the healing Owatonna Princess Fountain?

DAD’S FRIEND: [Stands, gesturing towards heaven.]

O, Princess Owatonna,

one sip of thy cool flowing waters

is all that I desire

…or need.

Bless me with thy watery beauty

that falls freely from thy willowy locks…

I need consume nothing more!

[They snicker and punch each other in the arm. A knucks bump is shared.]

I would say that I had reason to be concerned. Though they very well could have been talking about an actual fountain somewhere in Owatonna, this was beginning to sound like either a reference to some bizarre drug experience or a disgusting sexual encounter. NEITHER OF WHICH I WANTED TO HEAR ABOUT.  (I wouldn’t even include them on my other sex blog.)

Needless to say, I dropped the subject, assuming this was some sort of deranged local Owatonnean practice or rite-of-passage that I really didn’t want to hear about.

Weeks pass and I forget about the Princess. On one weekend my dad and I take a road trip to visit my grandpa, who lives in Owatonna, for his birthday. We eat angelfood cake and the conversation mysteriously shifts to, you guessed it, the Princess Owatonna Fountain.

DAD: Can you believe Brian has never drunk from the Princess?

MY AUNT: YOU MUST DRINK FROM THE PRINCESS!

DAD: Healing waters, right there!

ME: You know about the Princess Fountain too?

MY AUNT: Of course! It’s the very heartbeat of Owatonna history and culture! You have not LIVED until you have drunk from the Princess. 

By the smirks on their faces, I can tell that they’re putting me on. This is obviously some sort of inside joke that all Owatonneans have about some kind of frat-house initiation that they all do to outsiders which ultimately ends with the visitor embarrassed and sore, possibly dripping wet and feeling a little violated.

DAD: I’ll take you to the Princess before we leave today.

ME: Like sh** you will.

DAD: Hope you brought your camera!

ME: I’m uncomfortable.

DAD: You could blog about this!

ME: IF I live to make it back to my computer, which I’ll probably use to tell the authorities about you instead.

DAD: Can’t you trust your father?

ME: Not if he’s from Owatonna.

DAD: This is non-negotiable.

ME: I need to make some calls.

Before we left town, Dad drove me to a park with a stream running through it and he said, “There she is. Princess Owatonna.” And I saw this:

[Click to embiggen so you can read THE EPIC LEGEND.]

Princess Owatonna is REAL. And it’s an actual fountain. From mineral springs, which do have healthful and sometimes healing qualities.

I took a drink. It smelled like sulfur and tasted slightly of metal. I’ve drunk from natural mineral springs before in Bad Hamburg, Germany and I’ve had much worse—warm waters that tasted like liquid sand or human sweat, which were apparently wonderfully good for my health and well-being. This, however, was cool and refreshing, though a little mineraly, and I have no idea how it cured a dying Native American princess. Frankly, I was just happy that this experience didn’t leave me tarred and feathered.

So how about that? My parents are relatively trustworthy people.

The day I learned why it's wrong to spit on the ground

I led a conflicted existence in second grade. As you’ve read from my journal from that year, my struggles with being a musical kid in a football-dominated elementary school as well as the fact that my best friend was a forbidden GIRL gave me a lot to worry about. I walked a thin line those days, making sure to remain as masculine as possible as to not lose my present male friends or damage future rendezvous with the lady-folk. There was a standard in second grade, and I was constantly struggling to meet it.

Spitting on the ground, I soon discovered, was really quite a novel idea. My dad did it occasionally, baseball players in movies did it all the time while chewing what appeared to be a big brown sock, and so I began as well. My friends also joined me in this venture, and soon we were a gang of spitting hoodlums, not walking a dozen paces before generating as much saliva as we could in order to leave our slimy, foaming signatures on the playground blacktop.  

 [It was increasingly necessary to stay hydrated in second grade.]

As far as I can remember this was an activity that had no negative consequences, and was something that set us apart from everyone else. We were golden. Little did I know that our actions could cause something so dangerous, so life threatening, that even fifteen years later it would remain a globally destructive and horrible epidemic for which there is still no end in sight.

A fellow student (and by fellow student I mean complete a**hole tattletale who doesn’t even deserve to share the same playground with me) came up to my friend and I and questioned our behavior. Actually, it was less of a question and more of a TAUNT.

JERK: Why do you spit on the ground?

US: Because it’s COOL.

LOSER: It looks kind of messy.

US: IT’S COOLER THAN YOU CAN EVER IMAGINE. YOU SUCK!

BUTTFACE: No I don’t! I’m telling the teacher that you’re spitting on the ground!

US: Oh yeah?!

My friends and I then sent a barrage of spit-tooies to the ground to demonstrate our defiance. 

Then the teacher walked over and sent us to the principle’s office.

My rebellious vigor dwindled slightly.

Okay, I may have cried.

So there I was sitting in Mr. Eaton’s (the school’s principal whose round stature encouraged a slew of puns about his last name) office, and he began interrogating me.

MR. EATON: Why were you sent here, Brian?

BRIAN: I spit on the ground.

MR. EATON: Is that all you did?

BRIAN: More or less.

MR. EATON: Excuse me?

BRIAN: That’s all I did.

MR. EATON: Okay. Did you ever spit ON anyone?

BRIAN: Not unless the peripheral damage of my giant loogie splashed someone in the nearby vicinity.

MR. EATON: So, no one?

BRIAN: To be honest, I was the one who was the most at-risk in that situation.

MR. EATON: Okay. So you were sent here because you spit on the ground?

BRIAN: Yep.

MR. EATON: And I’m guessing that I’m supposed to tell you WHY merely spitting on the ground outside is a bad thing.

BRIAN: It would make this whole situation a lot clearer.

MR. EATON: Something that sounds truthful, then, so that your limited six-year-old understanding will accept it as absolute fact and I can get you out of my f***ing office?

BRIAN: What?

MR. EATON: Nothing. See, the reason that it’s bad to spit on the ground is … that, uh … um … There’s this disease going around called AIDS, and it’s really bad.

BRIAN: Really?

MR. EATON: Really. And spitting on the ground spreads it. So what you’re doing is dangerous.

BRIAN: I’ve never heard of AIDS before.

MR. EATON: You’ll actually learn about it in class next year, and by then you’ll probably have forgotten that I even told you this.

BRIAN: Interesting. So what’s this disease like and how does someone catch it?

MR. EATON: Oh, you don’t want to hear the specifics; it’s really complicated.

BRIAN: Try me.

MR. EATON: Alright, it’s not passed through saliva as though someone could absorb it through the soles of his or her shoes, the only way that that could happen is if you had blood in your saliva and they had an open wound on their foot, which shoes really prevent from happening anyway. Usually, though, it’s actually sexually transmitted.

MR. EATON: See what I mean?

BRIAN: Vaguely.

MR. EATON: Close enough. Go back to recess.

I left his office with a new knowledge about the consequences of my actions, and a creeping feeling that he was feeding me complete bullsh**.

And that’s the day I learned why it’s wrong to spit on the ground.

(Because you could kill someone.)

Dreambomb, or 50-Word Sagas, or I’m Doing Something I Really Shouldn’t Be Doing.

Another round of dreams I’ve had that are too small to devote a whole post to, so I lumped them together as short stories, written with no more or less than fifty words each. Just like the other 50-Word Dreams, these four share a theme. This time, it’s “I’m Doing Something I Really Shouldn’t be Doing.” I hope you enjoy your face off. 

Dream #1

            While sharing a pool with three women (it wasn’t a sexual dream, like the other blog), our conversation was repeatedly interrupted by one girl making a sound like a muffled car horn. My frustration increased to the point of consciousness, where I discovered the sound came from my snoring dog.

Dream #2

            Mom was sick, so I agreed to assist her in eating the potato chips held between her toes. When our new Romanian maid arrived, I let her take my place. (It’s a two-person job anyway.)

            “She’s doing it wrong!” my mom croaked immediately.

            “Be patient, Mom; it’s her first time.”

Dream #3

            Secretly lighting cigars to celebrate God knows what, my friends and I smoke (but oh dear Lord don’t inhale) happily at my roommate’s cabin, making sure to avoid the gaze of disapproving parents. Suddenly one approaches and all cigars are extinguished, save mine, which I shove wholly in my mouth.

Dream #4

            The tour of a WWII destroyed mansion was getting boring when, upon inspection, I discovered a Krisp Kringle hidden amongst the rubble.

            Oh boy! My favorite crunchy, chocolaty treat!

            Then I saw another.

            And another!

            They were everywhere! It was like a Krisp Kringle egg hunt!

            I stole them all.

The end. 

Happy Flowerth of July!

 

PEW! PEW! PEWPEWPEW!

["Aww! Cute little ones!"]

 

paTOP! paTOP! Fsssssshhhhhh KAPOW!!

["WHOA! Didn't expect that one to come out amongst the others!"]

KARSH! KIRSH! HHHWWWWOOOOOOOO!!

["Ooh pretty! This is probably the grand finale!"]

Shoop! Shoop! Shoop! Fizzzzzzzz!

["Oh they surprised me again! Nice little interlude!"]

kaTOE! kaTOETOETOE! TOE!

["OHLOOKATALLOFTHEM!!"]

I could do this all day. 

If only we could grow Tom Thumb donuts, I'd never have to go out for the 4th of July again.

I just really like pocket doors, okay?

I’ve had to say that so many times in the past couple days. All because of this story… 

So I was at Christie’s last week, and since we had a lot of errands to run that day, we decided in the morning that I would use her parent’s master bathroom to shower and she would shower in the other bathroom in order to save time. 

Routine procedure. We’d done this before. However, soon everything went wrong.

You see, Christie’s parents’ bathroom is one room with a shower, Jacuzzi tub, and sink, and there’s a smaller toilet room inside with its own pocket door.

And I love pocket doors.

I think it’s cool how they can just disappear into the wall making that cool sliding noise, and have their own special hook-like locks that are different than other locks. I also like how, though the door has handles on the side, to pull it out of the wall you must push on the little hook lock and pull it with your finger to close it. My grandparents had one at their lake home, and I used to play with it all the time. Pocket doors are like little extra walls that are actually doors that appear like Inspector Gadget’s arms. 

I just really like pocket doors, okay?

 

So after I turned on the shower to let the water warm up, I decided to take a little wee in the tiny toilet room. And of course I closed the pocket door and locked it. After I had flushed, I went to unlatch the pocket door and it was stuck. The little knobbity-switch thing didn’t turn all the way.

It took me only a few seconds to realize the gravity of the situation.

"1. I'm trapped in a 3x5 foot toilet room.

2. I locked the door to the main bathroom.

3. The windows are closed.

4. The shower is on.

5. Christie is showering elsewhere.

6. No one else is home."

The best thing about this situation was that I still had clothes on.

I was trapped in the bathroom.

With the heat in the toilet room rising because of the now steaming shower, I began to use my escape game skills to find a way out. Unfortunately, I found no screwdrivers (escape games always have screwdrivers) or secret compartments opened with a code I found written on the side of a bookshelf. (This reference is only relevant to the ten people in the world who actually play escape games…Sorry, the rest of you.) The only tool-like things available were Christie’s mom’s jewelry, and I considered trying to use some of it to unscrew the screws on the handle, but when I imagined her mom having to call in firemen to break down her bathroom doors with axes to get me out, I was thinking that coming out with a handful of bent and broken jewelry would probably not be the best idea. So I continued thinking. 
 

[Only the first five seconds of this video are relevant, but for some reason I couldn't help but put it up. Call me adorable.]

And then it came to me. The wall opposite the pocket door faced the main entryway in their house. So I started knocking. And knocking and knocking until Christie’s dog started barking. I felt like Bear Grylls when he sees a boat in the distance from the deserted island he’s stranded on, which means he can board the boat, or you know, be picked up by the Discovery Channel helicopter...either way, the end credits are rolling.

After about fifteen minutes of knocking (during which Christie has admitted to taking a long shower, reading, and cleaning her room because I was taking so long in the “shower”) Christie finally came down to yell at her dog and then realized the bizarre The Tell-Tale Heart-like knocking coming from the other side of the wall.

She knocked back. I sent another knock.

CHRISTIE: Brian?

BRIAN: knock knock knock knock knock

CHRISTIE: BRIAN?!

BRIAN: Christie! You’ll never guess what happened…

CHRISTIE: What?

BRIAN: I’m trapped in the little toilet room because the pocket door’s lock is broken.

CHRISTIE: (trying and failing to open the locked bathroom door) BRIAN!! Why did you lock it?

BRIAN: I just really like pocket doors, okay?

CHRISTIE: But the other door’s locked and the windows are closed and the shower’s on.

BRIAN: Thanks, but I have already established that.

CHRISTIE: I don’t know what to do!

BRIAN: Well, are there hinges on your side?

CHRISTIE: No.

BRIAN: Are there screws on the handle?

CHRISTIE: No.

BRIAN: Bollocks.

While Christie was trying to unlock the door with a bobby pin, she called her mom (which made me glad I didn’t use her jewelry). Hearing one side of the conversation, I remember Christie saying, “I asked him that too…I guess he just really likes pocket doors.”

Christie’s mom then came home with a family friend/handyman who took a coat hanger and unlocked the bathroom door and then used a screwdriver to unlock the pocket door, revealing me, sweaty, red-faced, and unshowered in the doorway.

I would love to say, “And then I woke up,” but this was no dream, folks. I had been in there for an hour.

That whole time-saving thing that Christie and I had planned was kind of ruined at that point. And I still hadn’t showered.

I just really like pocket doors, okay?

The day I learned that putting up your middle finger means more than simply putting up your middle finger

I’ve started about six different posts all trying to find some funny, light-hearted way to talk about how I feel insecure about the fact that I have recently graduated college with a major in Reconciliation Studies and Art, I’m living at home in La Crosse until I find a job up in the Cities, and all the jobs I thought I wanted two years ago when I set my study program now don’t look so appealing, even though my resume makes me relatively appealing to them.

But I can’t find some funny, light-hearted way to talk about it. So I’m just saying it here to get it off my chest so I can stop planning to write about it.

There.

Now, how about a story?

This is how I learned what the middle finger meant.

For the first eight years of my life, my family lived in a small neighborhood in Rochester, Minnesota. We had nice neighbors to the left and right: a kind Filipino woman who let us use her snowblower in the winter, and a young family of doctors who graced us with the occasional check-up when we weren’t sure of the differences between a scab and a tumor. Across the street, however, was a house that about a million people moved in and out of it on a monthly basis—a woman who collected as many exotic birds as the rooms could hold, a family with two boys who were nice but a little sketchy, and one family that will haunt my memory forever.

I assume the father worked and wasn't home much. That allowed the mother to spend the day smoking like a grill full of damp mesquite chips, yelling at the neighbor kids, and vacuuming the house. Mind you, at six years old, I was in the beginnings of my drug-resistance education, so whenever I would see her vacuuming through the window, I pictured her wading through knee-high piles of cigarette butts and ash, all the while adding to the mess with the burning one in her mouth. 

 [That's seriously what I always imagined.]

She had two kids; they may have been twins, and were probably a year or two younger than I was. I’m pretty sure the girl was born with a tramp stamp, and I am certain that the boy was a real life version of one of the South Park characters—round-headed and snarling. They were both absolutely rotten. These two kids ruined my life every time I would walk across the street and along the border of their yard and the one next to it in order to visit my friend on the other side. 

 

I always had to sneak and hope to God that they wouldn’t be in the yard when I crossed through. Of course I would always find them there, playing in their cat poop-filled sandbox, mouths and chins stained with Kool Aid in the most un-cute way possible. Their faces would demonically jerk up at the sound of me coming, and the little vermin would start screaming and swearing at me to get out of their yard.

Now, I came from a fairly mild-mannered household. This was SHOCKING.

I recall trying to reason with them, which just proved fruitless against these little creatures. And then the mother would come out, cigarette lodged on the right side of her face and holding a naked infant in her left arm.

THE MOTHER: What’s going on out here?

THE EVIL LITTLE KIDS: This f***ing loser is walking through our yard!

ME: I just want to get to my friend’s house on the other si—

THE MOTHER: Well, what goes around comes around. You walk in our yard, we’ll walk in yours.

ME: What? Why? What have you possibly got to accomplish in our yard? There’s just a field on the other side, and it’ll someday be a Kwik Trip, but for now it’s just a field and I can’t think of anything in there that would appeal to you unless you’re a small game hunter—

But their screen door had already been slammed.

The two little butthole kids then laughed at me and said a lot of words I didn’t recognize, so I was sure they were swear words. I screamed back things like “fart knocker!” and “butt nugget!” unfortunately with a lot less success than they had with their retorts.

Then the little boy did it. He planted both feet on the ground, leaned back and curled his torso into a C-shape, cocked his shoulder and his neck like a snake eyeing up its prey, and slowly raised the back of his hand, with all fingers lethargically curled except for one. The middle one. Dust caught in the creases of its knuckles because of unwashed popsicle juice that had been caked on there, and an untrimmed fingernail filled with the sand he had taken a break from digging in. 

 

He stayed in that position and nervously eyed his hand as if he had just unveiled the most evil pirate’s curse to ever be seen.

And I was all...

His sister then did the same thing, except in a more feminine way, but still with the fervor of someone who just discovered Osama Bin Laden’s porno stash.

And again I was all...

They just stood there in silence, letting The Finger take affect. Feeling like I was kind of being sneak-attacked, like maybe they were distracting me with their finger-hypnotism, I bolted up their yard and to my friend’s house, discombobulated.

I later asked my dad what it meant and he told me not to do that. That’s all I needed to hear.

And a few days later those little douche-kazoos were caught picking my mom’s tulips out of our front yard. I'll let her rant about it in the comments section.

I considered writing a blog post but when my hands learned that they would have to touch my slightly-warmer-than-the-surrounding-air laptop, they retreated into my wrists.

I think the title sums it up well.

It’s freaking hot.

Temperature: 90 degrees.

Feels like: Actual hell.

And Weather.com said, "We're gonna have rain, so don’t turn on your air conditioning because everything will be better soon!"

Well I just checked Weather.com and JUST LIKE LAST TIME, it has announced that rain actually never existed; it’s just something the Men In Black told us when they used that little memory-eraser thing on us.

Bitches.