Did Hell freeze over or is it just winter in Wisconsin?

Welcome to the Frozen Hell Poll.

No, I’m not calling it that because it’s winter in NW Wisconsin (though it would be fitting). This poll is for you to use your imagination.

Imagine if Dairyland Murders was made into a TV Mini series. I’m thinking one two-hour episode for each of the first three books. That’s three episodes in one week, maybe for Halloween or a creepy Valentine’s Week, or a sexy-but-bloody Christmas (severed head with your egg nog, anyone?)

I say use your imagination because the odds of such a thing actually happening are super model slim. Even if hell did freeze over just for me, and I did land a mini series for Dairyland Murders, I would have very little involvement in the process (the control freak in me is cringing painfully). Ask this author, if you don’t believe me.

So let’s have fun with this. What if you and I had COMPLETE control over making Dairyland Murders into a mini series? What if we were the production company with the obscene budget and clout to pitch our “fabulous” story to the Hollywood powers that be?

Each week I’ll toss out a survey question, and you decide with your votes what the decision will be.

Let’s start with a Network:

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I always do this.  I procrastinate trying something new because I know it can’t be perfect the first time out, and I’m not good at accepting my own mistakes. I really admire the people who can just bravely face the world with ignorant confidence and go for it. If they don’t have figurative balls the size of car tires, they sure act like they do. {My apologies to my husband and the rest of the blogosphere for using “balls” in my work again. It must be a compulsion.}

I go back to the concept of expectation. It’s a big word for a reason.  If you want to truly identify what separates the rich from the poor, you need look no further than that four syllable “e” word. {The middle class is extinct. People only say they are middle class to make themselves feel better. The middle class died out with leaded gasoline and cigarette commercials.}

In a very generalized nutshell, rich people expect their kids to succeed. Poor people expect their kids to survive. When those expectations are not met, there are dire social consequences. Furthermore, when those expectations are exceeded, there are also dire social consequences.

I grew up poor. My parents are loving, decent people who have always worked hard and done what was necessary to survive. At a young age it was made very clear to me what their expectations were. Get through high school without going to jail or winding up pregnant. That was it. After eighteen, I was the state’s problem. And, believe it or not, where I came from, that was considered a high expectation. I’m pretty sure they had no freakin’ clue what to do with me, when at age twelve I informed them that I planned on going to college.

I only made it worse when I said I was going to art school. “Why don’t you be a nurse or a teacher? They make lots of money.” These were the only female role models in my small community that my parents could relate to. But at the time most of the teachers seemed mean, and since I normally cried at the sight of my own blood, a medical career didn’t sound like a good idea either. Plus, when I was about seven, it became evident that I could draw. Being the validation junkie that I am, I clung to that positive reinforcement with every fiber of my being.

What I failed to recognize though, was that the combination of  “creative and poor” culminated into “weird”. I was social suicide, no matter the economic class. I did manage to find a few other “weird” friends, and we forged alliances that persist to this day. But try as I might, “uppity trailer trash” still clings to my psyche like persistent skunk musk. It’s downright debilitating, especially if there’s a risk of failure and embarrassment.

There have been numerous times throughout my life when I wished to God that I could live within others expectations of me. Life would have been so much easier, but I would have been miserable. Often, I was miserable anyway, but at least I was honest. Living a false life to make others more comfortable would have been so much worse.

By the way, this entire neurotic gripe is brought to you because I’m about to launch a Facebook fan page. It’ll be a first for me, and I’ll probably make mistakes, so please, for the love of God, lower your expectations (eek!).

Having never hosted a Christmas party before, I was quite naive about the collateral damage left in its wake. I’m not talking about property damage (We’re Lutherans. We don’t have those kind of fun parties, at least not without copious amounts of beer and Polka music). I’m talking about physiological damage.

First, there’s the complete disregard to anything resembling a balanced diet. This collapse of gastronomic order is exacerbated by the well-meaning guests who leave all of their food behind (because they know what will happen if they bring it home). Suddenly, you’re rationalizing having bar-b-qued meatballs before bed and eating cheesecake for breakfast. “They left all this food behind. I don’t want it to go to waste (as it “goes to waist”).”

Second is the complete exhaustion. You went to all of this trouble to prepare the house for guests. In my case, there was painting walls, moving furniture, and hanging paintings and light fixtures in addition to the usual cleaning-like-you-actually-care chores. So once it’s all over, your body acts like it’s finished some sort of marathon, and you pretty much just drop.

Other than the physical movements required by your employers/customers in order to get paid, there just ain’t a whole hell of a lot of physical activity going on between Christmas and New Years. This condition is perpetuated by the first condition. With all of the leftovers that need to be eaten, there’s simply no need to actually cook anything. And if a dish doesn’t fit in the dishwasher, it ain’t gettin’ washed. My dish drain still has the clean dishes from Christmas in it.

And for those of you who went to the gym right after Christmas, you either left your ill-gotten gain at some other poor sap’s house, or something is seriously wrong with you. Normal people were snuggled up on their couches in the jammies they got for Christmas, yelling at their favorite football team and making fun of the dorky New Year’s Eve Parties on TV (or at some party, trying to pawn off their food to the host in a gesture disguised as generosity, when it’s really an act of self-preservation).

I can totally understand why Americans are fat people, and my take on that phenomena is actually a positive one. We are a culture that shares our affection and generosity of the human spirit with food. Celebrations are characterized by the traditions of certain foods, most of them decadent because the expression of joy is a decadent feeling. In my neck of the woods, it is rude to have someone over to visit without putting out a plate of something (commonly referred to as “coffee”, but there’s usually enough food to qualify it as another meal…oh, and served with coffee).

As the nation as a whole, we’ve been through the ringer this last year. I think we deserved those last couple weeks to party and turn into sloths in a gesture of joy and camaraderie. If nothing else brings us together, the excesses of the holidays will.

My wonderful husband made bean soup from the last of the ham left in the fridge from Christmas. We finished it up last night. I finally went back to the gym yesterday (even though I really REALLY didn’t want to). So I guess things are returning to something that resembles normal. My brain’s finally ready to get back to work. My digestive system may need a few more days to recover from all the rich food. Good thing it’s just the two of us in the house…and there’s nothing flammable around. Take a Tums and have a happy 2013.