Dear Children: Being A Stick-In-The-Mud,


Call it a fuddy duddy. Stick-in-the-mud (which by the way sounds better than being mud, doesn’t it?). A party pooper.

These are all society’s acceptable names that seem to be okay to call someone who does not give into peer pressure.

Guess what?

Your mommy is proud to have been called all of them.

Because sometimes, well sometimes, it’s important to stand up for something you believe in.

And people are going to feel threatened that you might not agree with their actions.

By you refusing to do an action with them, it calls into question their own morality.

People don’t like that.

But you should “stick to your guns anyway.”

This will probably lead them to result to name calling. Those words will hurt. Don’t think they won’t. But not as much as your soul will hurt if you go against it. The names they will call you may cut deeper than a “stick in the mud.” And as hard as this will be, you must ignore them.

When I was a child there was a nonsense little saying that went like this:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.”

That saying is ridiculous. Words are the most powerful thing in the world.

You might also notice that in Mommy’s time people were kind of obsessed with sticks.

I can’t explain this.

There must have been more trees back then.

This probably explains the many leaf idioms, as well.

But even back then, people fought the word, “no.”

Maybe they never learned differently. Maybe they just want to make their own choices. And that is okay. As long as you get to, too.

Because you should respect the use of someone else using that word, too.

Otherwise, we might as well all be made of sticks and leaves. And even stones.

Being human is more than that.

At least, it should be.


If your friends or adversaries still will not understand your decision to not conform to their decision, well, I guess they “got the short end of the stick.”
Maybe you could, “Help them turn over a new leaf.”
If not, have more confidence than one can “shake a stick at.”

In today’s terms:






The Time I Met A Fairy Tale


I am about to tell you a tale.

It is up to you to decide what to make of it.

Everything in this story is true.

And for the past seventeen years there have been moments where I have questioned the validity of my memory. Thankfully, it has remained the same after all of these long years. However, it does not make the story any less strange:

When I was nineteen I worked as a hostess at a little steak restaurant in town. The owners were a really cool laid-back couple in their thirties. Every girl that worked in the joint had a crush on the owner. We’ll just call him Derek*. He had long dark wavy hair that caressed the collar of his button-down cowboy shirt (the type of buttons that snap… And unsnap quickly, if you get my drift), a Brad Pitt smile, brown gleaming eyes, the sexiest whisper of a voice, and he wore his jeans well. Sorry for all of the sordid details. I wanted to get the details right for the story’s sake, of course.

Well, actually, Derek had nothing to do with the story, but I thought it would be fun to throw him in. For my your dreams tonight. It will make the story I am telling a little less disturbing.

You’re welcome.

So, there I was. At the hostess counter. The restaurant was extremely busy. The bar was full. We were operating on a short staff. We had an hour and a half wait. And us two hostesses were being swarmed with customers. Hungry customers, who after ten minutes into their hour and a half wait, would be coming up to us demanding to know where they were on the list. This wouldn’t be so bad if just one person did it, but it seemed that many folks parading around under the title of “adult” were terrible at time management.

And would come up every ten minutes to check our magic list. Because time must work differently on it.

This is why we always gave a wait time longer than we expected it to be. And, beside each name, the time we had given them to expect to wait was written.

That’s a little hostess trick I’m givin’ ya. And my second gift in this post.

Again, you’re welcome.

I might have also been slightly irritated that the white crayon I had been whittling with a steak knife had had to be put away to deal with the crowd. And also why today, there is one less whittler and one less crayon sculpture in the world.

This is where my gifts to you end.

Somehow, in the midst of all of this, in through the crowd, stalked a short little old man.

He is the center of our story.

He was as real as you and me.

He had a long white beard. A face full of leathered wrinkles. A large hawk nose. Beady little eyes. And a scowl larger than the whole of his entire body.

He also could not have been taller than five feet. In my memory he was as tall as the bottom of my rib cage, but that seems entirely impossible. And so for you I say, “under five feet.” In my head I say, “as tall as my rib cage.” You may choose to believe whichever you choose. It is just a small part of the story. He was not a “little person” as we know them today. He was just a very short…Very grumpy…Very odd little old imp man.

He came up to the hostess booth and asked me how long the wait would be. I asked him if he was by himself (this is because parties of one are quicker to seat). He was.

I told him his wait would be an hour.

Then I asked him for his name.

And he told me.

And I stared at him.

I asked him again.

And he told me.

And I laughed.

I could not believe it. It was the best joke of the night.

The little old man’s cheeks flushed red with anger. In my memory, he stomped his wee feet. But this is the part I think I might have exaggerated. For this story’s sake, though, we will say he stomped his feet in a mad little rage. He asked me why I was laughing.

And this is what I said, “Your name. Why, that can’t possibly be your name!”

He just stared at me. And stared at me. Until I picked up my pen.

“Okay. How do you spell that?” I inquired. It was at this point I began to suspect he was quite serious. And it was at this point I began to wonder if the air in the restaurant had been drugged.

“R-U-M-P-E-L-S-T-I-L-T-S-K-I-N,” he sharply spelled out, all the while giving me a stare that would have shriveled straw.

“Okay, Rumpelstiltskin. I will call you when your table is ready.”

The little old man stalked off towards the bar.

Our hostess desk continued to be bombarded. And I put the strange man out of my head for a time.

Until his name was the next to he called.

“Rumplestiltskin, your table is ready.”

No answer.

Snickers from the impatient crowd.

Two more times I called his name and two more times there was no answer.

For the last time, I said, “Final call for Rumplestiltskin. Rumplestiltskin, this is your final call.”

I never imagined that those words would be uttered from my lips.

I really never imagined any of the situation would have have occurred to me.

And that it would indeed be not an imagination.

Rumplestiltskin never did answer my call.

Maybe he had heard we had a magic list at that hostess desk and he was disappointed to learn the truth of it.

I think he left, because he was upset that he told me his name.

Either that, or the fact, that I cannot spin straw.

But it is definitely one of those two.

There really is no other explanation.

My having laughed at the poor man being entirely out of the mix.


* Derek is the only part of this story that is made up. The name, that is. The man, well, he was oh so real.

Sweet dreams.

P.S. This absurd and 100% true account was written for The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge: Power Of Names.

Reading: The Name of the Wind


I recently finished reading my favorite book in the world, “The Name of the Wind,” for the third time. It is written by Patrick Rothfuss. It is part of a trilogy. The third one has yet to be released. Bated breath, folks. Bated breath.

The reason I love this book is because it can appeal to anyone. I am a lover of fantasy. Science fiction. The surreal. And while this book is set in another world and it has magic and such, it is written in a more fluid fictional first person narrative. Meaning the main character is telling his story and he can be related to by most. The words in this book are pure poetry.

I wish I could quote some of my favorite verses. There are so many quotable sayings in the book. Unfortunately, I recently read you cannot print a quote from a book without permission from the author. And, thus, I shall not. It makes me more than slightly nauseous to think of Patrick Rothfuss reading my drivel.


It does take a bit to get into the book. Each time I read it, I get stuck on the first thirty pages for about two days. But then the story opens up. And you get lost in it.

The story centers around Kvothe. It starts out with him as an inn keeper relating his story back to a transcriber. And boy what a story! The main premise of this book is him getting to The University to try to learn the name of the wind. It is what Harry Potter would be if it was set to poetry and music. And I say that with the highest regard, because if I ever won the lottery, the very first thing I would purchase is the first edition Harry Potter book.

Kvothe is an unlikely hero. Well, aren’t all heroes usually unlikely? So, I guess he is a likely hero. You are definitely rooting for him even as you disagree with some of the choices he makes. But that is what makes this book great. Not good. Because you do care. You care about a character who does not exist. True magic. That is what that is.


As soon as I finished this book, I promptly picked up the second one (for the second time) and breezed through it. And then, in a purely nerdy fashion… I made notes and guesses about what I thought was going to happen in book three.

Then I googled it. Because that is how much I love this book. I found forums discussing just this very subject. I swiftly felt like an idiot. So many wonderful theories and ways to look at these books. Not only did I not feel worthy to post my theories, but I also left the forums firmly believing that Patrick Rothfuss is a genius. If what these people theorize is correct, he will have brought the whole story together so beautifully. And unbelievably intelligently. I cannot even stand it. That is how smart these books are.

Have you read these books? Are you anxiously awaiting the finale? Do you have any recommendations of your own for me to read while I am waiting? And tell me I am not alone in my firm belief that brains are mightier than brawn in making a grown woman swoon.

P.S. You can always check out Patrick Rothfuss’ blog in my blog roll. And his Facebook page is wonderful. But my favorite post of his was one he wrote this past Valentine’s Day. He is such a beautiful writer. This might be the best blog post ever written. Oh! Also, I just want to quickly note that he curses on his blog. This does not bother me. But you should be warned, in case that affects you negatively.