Molly Ingalls Wilder

I feel exactly like I should be on that 70's TV show, Little House on the Prairie, each morning. Well, aside from the fact that we have running water, electricity, and my jammies don't resemble the American Girl doll, Samantha. I feed my barnyard of animals for what seems like a frickin' hour at the ass-crack of dawn. I need to get up early to git to ma' chores or the kids won't be a'gettin' tended to. I take Sir Pierre the Papillon out to do his duty. Sometimes I have to act like a Border Collie to herd him back into the house. He thinks it's hilarious to play "keep away" from me when I am nipping out in my PJ's. I feed him his chow and fetch some fresh water. I get the plate of assorted fresh veggies and herbs prepared for the guinea pigs. I fill their hay trough and change their bedding, well at least in the soggy corner. (I've never seen two smaller animals piss and shit more than these two.) I feed the cats and make sure the cigar-size turds are cleaned from the litterbox. Issey tends to leave a "Fuck You" dump in the middle of the theater room if his shitter is left soiled for too long. Shall I go milk the cows now? Is there a cornfield that needs a'plowin'? Do I need to get the wagon ready to bring my farm fresh cheeses into town so Mr. Olson can sell them at the General Store? Then I can tell that bitch, Nellie Olson, that I spit in her sasparilla at the church social last Sunday.
Seriously though, Little House on the Prairie was a staple TV show in my house growing up. We used to sit as a family and watch it every Friday night. Like SOOO totally lame, if you ask kids of today's generation. Suffice to say we didn't have many options "back in the day". I don't think I would have made it as a country farm girl from that era. I don't enjoy cooking "from scratch". Pillsbury makes a handy dandy bag of flour that I don't have to grind from the wheat Pa plowed this afternoon. An even better option is Keebler, who uses their Elfin Magic to bake cookies with neat little fudge stripes all the way across. And my kids can bite into these morsels without me so much as hitting the pre-heat button on my rarely used oven. I know I'd bitch about having to sleep with a bearskin on me to keep me warm since we would have no heat other than the LIVE FIRE in the living room. If one of my twenty barn cats decided it was time to look for some pussy pussy, they'd probably knock over that kerosene lantern, igniting my entire matchstick wooden house, simultaneously catching my NON- flame-retardant jammies on fire. We had no TV so how was Bob Barker supposed to warn me to get my pets spayed or neutered?? I know there would be about 50 times more animal poop to clean up--horses, chickens, pigs. And as tempting as those lovely calico prints from the town store might look, I'd have no idea how to whip them into a lace-trimmed frock like Caroline used to. My kids would be wearing calico tarps like togas. No sewing required, right? I would venture no further than into town (3 1/2 miles away) because my wagon and trusty horse, Bessie, couldn't make it any further. It would be like taking spring break in Aurora. I would have to learn to needlepoint because there certainly was no scrapbooking back then. No People magazine? No Rockstar energy drink? Shitty burnt coffee made over the fire, no Starbucks? No Kraft mac and cheese? Never leaving the confines of Bolingbook? Somebody shoot me.
I wouldn't say I'm a lazy person, I just enjoy modern conveniences--A LOT. Can you even imagine what life would be like with even the simplest things? Screw TV and computers, imagine no electricity for lights. No running water--no HOT water. Talk about crabby ass kids waking up every morning. Having to prepare every damn thing you eat. You'd pick it from the ground after you've grown it for months. I would die of starvation. I kill every helpless little sunflower seed my kids bring home in messily decorated pots. How the hell would I grow a field of corn or wheat? I like buying my pre-skinned boneless chicken breasts wrapped in plastic and styrofoam, all ready for me to cook. I don't mind choking the chicken here and there, if ya' know what I mean, but I draw the line at slaughtering. Guess I'd welcome back my trendy vegetarianism. And pork tenderloin is so damn tasty, too. Son of a bitch.
I don't know how I would survive if I ever had no car. Seriously, a horse and wagon would be a bitch to maneuver. I couldn't just zip off to work 15 minutes before I needed to be there. I'd have to leave like 3 hours early. Trusty Bessie might need to stop for a drink from my canteen or to dump a pound or two of road apples. Sorry, but I am NOT cleaning those up. And I think my Windstar makes me look like a tool. And would I just tie Bessie to the bike rack? What if some jack-ass punk decided to steal her? It's not like I could lock her up next to my mountain bike.
But alas I live in THIS century, not one where the town doctor, Doc Baker, treats every ailment in town, even for my farm animals. He delivers babies, treats my blind sister, Mary, and takes care of those pesky genital warts Albert got from "church camp". The family on that show never left Walnut Grove. It was like a few people I've met here that have never ventured to "THE BIG CITY" (Chicago) in their entire lives. And they've lived here--30 miles away--forever. Is it really that far? Is it really that intimidating? Shit, there are parts of Joliet and Aurora that are more ghetto than Chicago. Trust me, if you ever thought you wanted to kick Nellie Olsen's ass, head to Neiman Marcus on Michigan Avenue. I'm pretty sure she works in Women's Couture and still has those ringlet curls. I would join you but I think it's time to git to ma' chores again. I smell animal shit that needs a'cleanin'.