The Princess and the Miser




Ever since I was a little girl I’ve planned my wedding. Unknown to most people, little girls are actually born with an umbilical cord, placenta, and the most recent issue of Bridal Magazine. The planning process is a lifetime thing, though very much subject to change. In fact it’s almost a prerequisite. During the course of her single life she will try on the last name of any single man within ten years of her age bracket whether she finds him appealing or not. If his last name clashes with hers, then she will seriously rethink any possible relationship, whether they or dating or not. I have personally yet to find any last name that goes spectacularly well with my own, and if I ever did I am not quite sure what I would do. If my circumstances were different I would be forced to marry that person purely based on my future last name, which I am sure is not the best thing to base a marriage off of, so I may have to forgo that, especially since my significant other would no doubt not be pleased with me should I do such a thing. Truly though, a last name can at times make or break a relationship. To wed someone with the last name of Hammerbottom or some such unprepossessing thing can at times be a major strain on a relationship. A woman’s first thought is towards her offspring, existent or not and to know that her young will have to face school for so many years with continual jaunts and jeers leads her to rethink her choice of a husband. In the primitive days women would go for men who were strong, good hunters and grew a lot of hair. Now in modern times they choose the man whose last name is least likely to cause their children to be shoved in lockers and have obscene chants made for them.

Besides the last name thing, we females always have a million ludicrous expectations of what our future husbands will be like. We have a very long and specific list we’ve been accumulating since we were children, and it has only been added to it over the years. We tend to desire men who are kind, good with children and animals, successful, ambitious, honest, financially very secure (bordering on rich actually), tall, muscular, incredibly handsome, suave, sophisticated, sensitive, generous, well bred, talented, intelligent, musical, loyal, committed, brave, strong, adept, witty, humorous, brooding, and preferably within a ten year age span of us. The list of qualifications for a husband is impossibly long and incredibly detailed. It is not uncommon to find such things as, “Can play Chopin on the piano and harpsichord backwards and underwater while reciting poetry in latin”, written on them. As we mature and gain experience with the opposite sex though, our expectations turn realistic and we usually settle for someone who’s not too fat, not too ugly, and has no (or at least only a minor), prison record. Regardless of how many things we’ve had to cross off our lengthy list, we females usually tend to be pretty hung up over any fellow we deem husband worthy, and if all goes right, the excitement of wedding planning begins. This can happen as early as after the first date with said possible husband, just so long as she doesn’t clue him in on it. And so here I am, in such a state. I am nowhere near getting married, I have not been asked nor can I foresee that happening for a while, but that does not stop me from being in a major dilemma. It is the case of what I like to call, the princess and the miser.

All my life I have planned to be rich. Don’t ask me how, it was simply going to happen. I went through dozens of possible careers throughout my childhood, and whether it was an archeologist or a horse trainer, it was going to make me a wealthy woman. After all, how else was I going to afford my mansion? Since such large sums of money were in my future, I naturally didn’t have to worry about wedding costs. I was free to dream up gloriously beautiful garlands of flowers strung across the walls of my nineteenth century Victorian home, several cakes of every flavor and decoration on tables surrounded by French chefs in those stupid white hats standing by, their faces bearing the proud expression very much akin to new parents looking upon their infant. Red and yellow rose pedals would adorn the ENTIRE floor of my enormous personal ballroom, I would be led by my new husband around our seven hundred acre property, atop a dapple grey stallion with wavy hair, my beautiful Vera Wang dress cascading past my feet where I rode demurely and elegantly, side saddle of course. Doves and other various pretty winged creatures would be released and more rose petals thrown into the air, everyone would be in resplendent finery, though none so much as my own of course. An authentic Gaelic band would play at the reception, where my husband and I would dance a merry little jig, much to the delight and entertainment of my five hundred or so guests. There would be dancing, and music, and pretty horses, and an absolutely stunning gown that Cinderella herself would be jealous of. Oh yes, this was to be my wedding. After all, I was going to be rich wasn’t I? I deserved it didn’t I? I mean, it was MY day. I was the bride! Really, I’ve come to find that the word bride is pretty much synonymous with princess. If you look at all the pictures in wedding magazines and books, you’ll find there is an uncanny resemblance. Many of them even wear tiaras and pose on brilliant red carpeted staircases of some fancy abode that is costing them three month’s rent just to use for the picture. Yes, despite the fact that most men think a wedding is a ceremony who’s purpose is to legally bind their girlfriend to them as their spouse, to most women an actual wedding is the one and only time in her life when she will get to be a princess for a day, wear a beautiful dress, be the center of attention, and be given loads of presents by people she may or many not even know. It’s like being thrust into the finale of a Disney cartoon, right where everyone gets their just rewards, the couple gets together and ride off in the sunset on their great big pumpkin- like carriage. What woman doesn’t dream of that? What woman doesn’t want that? Well, I suppose there are some who don’t, but I always did. I am not a very prissy girl, I don’t wear high heels with jeans, I don’t wear dresses and lipstick unless necessary, I’m fairly unfussy, but despite my simple ways and no fuss personality, I could not help but desire to be a princess for just one day. After all, it was the only day I was going to get! I would go to other people’s weddings and smile politely and eat their cheap cake and Costco cashew nuts and think, “Oh that poor bride. A pity she had to settle for a reception in a gym when I’m going to have my own ballroom. Oh well, it’s a nice enough reception I suppose. At least they’ll be happy. But I am SOOOO not going to be like that. I do need a better place to ride my horse after all.” And I would continue to dream about my own wedding, despite the fact that I did not even KNOW any available young men, let alone be dating one. Still, I had things planned out.

Now, years later I am twenty two. Am I close to marriage? Not as yet. Am I rich? Decidedly no. I don’t even have my own bike, let alone a dapple grey stallion with wavy hair. This has made me rethink my plans a little bit. True, I still plan to be fabulously wealthy someday. Still don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. In the meantime, the miser has started to take over. There’s an overwhelming sense of shock when you realize that you are in fact a poor broke person and that despite all your dreams, you are likely to stay that way for quite some time. No one is going to pay for your wedding, there is no fairy godmother who comes and waves her magic wands and suddenly gives you a reception that Cinderella could be envious of. There is in fact a huge bill to pay for being a princess, and often there is no way to actually pay it. You’re not really marrying a prince, you’re just marrying a guy in a tux that he doesn’t even own, and as much as you’d like him to be your hero, he’s not gonna be able to pull you out of the hole of debt that you’d be throwing yourself into if you really did go nuts for your wedding. No. I suddenly realized that my funds would have to come from myself. From the ice cream in the punch to the wavy haired stallion, I would have to pay for it. Frankly, I don’t have much money, certainly not enough to be even renting any equestrian creatures, let alone a palace and doves and all that crap. The more I thought about it, the more the church gym was sounding good to me. Maybe these other couples were smarter than I was. After all, paying the rent was probably a bit more important than renting crystal champagne flutes for my sparkling cider. And after all is said and done, it is just a fancy party that only lasts for one day. Eviction is a much more unpleasant experience than a less than mind blowing reception. One has to be realistic about one’s budget and not be too frivolous if one wants to have the luxuries of life, like food and electricity. Yes indeed, it looked as though my sisters and all of those other people who had similar receptions were actually smarter than I realized. And so here I am, torn between two desires. The desire to be a princess and the desire to eat! The miser and the princess. They are both screaming in my ear opposite things and wearing their prospective wedding gowns as they each barter for their case. The princess wears a Vera Wang gown of hand made lace and beads, a ten foot train trails behind her and she jumps up and down screaming, “It’s MY day! It’s MY day! The only freakin day I’ll ever have! You expect me to give this up!? Don’t I deserve it? Don’t I DESERVE it?!!” She’s immaculate, her makeup and hair done by professionals, but her face is bright red from screaming and throwing her temper tantrums all about how this is the one day she gets to celebrate her marriage and that everyone else gets to have these lovely fancy weddings and why can’t she? And after all, this is theoretically her only chance to do something like this, so why would I want to throw it all away? She’s quite persuasive at times, for she’s a very good sweet talker and used to getting her way. Meanwhile on the other side is the miser. Her dress is pretty, but tasteful and made by a woman who specializes in making wedding dresses at home and thankfully she’s cheap! Her hair and makeup are done by herself and she very calmly and rationally makes her case. “You should save your money Heidi. The wedding is not as important as what you make of your life after it, and you’re going to need money for that. Don’t be frivolous and vain, be smart. It takes money to live on your own and you don’t want to be selfish and start your life in debt!” It’s around this point that the princess throws her shoe at the miser’s face and a brawl begins. I tend to solve it by not thinking about it. After all, it’s not like I’m engaged or anything! I don’t need to worry about it yet! But still, I know there’s a rather nasty fight between the two lurking around the corner in my future someday, and when it hits I really don’t want to be there! In the meantime though, I think I’ll price out cashews at Costco…

Frothing, Pixie Sticks, and The Hot Hot Sun


(word of warning, this is only an average blog. Sorry guys!)

It was several months ago that we went on what was to be perhaps one of the most enjoyable days of my life up to this point. Adrianna, my sister Katie, and myself went to our usual hiking spot, a not too far away wildlife reserve with hiking trails and the like. At the time, the weather was near a hundred degrees, if not more, and we were ready for an adventure, as we brought along water, beef jerky, pixie sticks, and taffy cookies. Not exactly your usual hiking fare, but it sounded good to us. And so we headed into the reserve, deciding to take a different route than usual, and see what wonderful and magnificent views the day had to offer us. It didn’t take us long to be sweltering, and soon we were going for our water. Our pleasant little domesticated trail ended abruptly and we found ourselves facing a crappy looking fence with a badly tilted sign warning us not to go through the fence as it was private property and should we cross it our internal organs would be liquefied by alien rays and our DNA would be used for genetic experiments involving hamsters and onions. We looked at each other, grinned impishly, and warily crossed the very open gate into the forbidden side of the reserve. We walked quite fast and looked around often in trepidation, lest government agents, ninjas, or some combination thereof should suddenly spring up from the tall grass and aim their hand guns or nunchaku at us. We gigglingy rehearsed our story should any authoritative figure suddenly appear to question us on our less than legal presence. It’s amazing how giddy and absurd we girls can get when we are not within the bounds of the law. We came up with several complicated excuses that became more and more complex. At one point our story was something to the effect of us being Russians with speech impediments and hearing problems, but needless to say this plan was quickly dropped and after much debate and tossing about of ideas, we finally decided to simply say we hadn’t seen the sign. Though it was determined that Katie would be the one to say that, as she was the only one of us who was a decent liar. Now I suppose we should all be very ashamed of ourselves for going in this forbidden sector, and what’s more for planning how we’d lie about it to the authorities later if caught, but what can I say? We’re young! We could be doing a whole lot worse than exploring a part of the wildlife reserve! Seeing a bit more of nature than we were supposed to was far less offensive than doing drugs, or drinking or all the other delinquent things our peers are often guilty of. Therefore I don’t think it worth it to get hung up on a little extra sight seeing.

So there we were, hiking through the narrow little trail, talking and joking excitedly about the possible punishments one acquires from being in a restricted wildlife area. It was fairly shady, but the mosquitos were out in force. It was not uncommon for one to be walking and suddenly be slapped mightily by the person behind you, who would then often utter a disgusted cry and wipe their hand off on nearby plant life. Sometimes we could get a little too spirited in our pest slapping, and there was a bit of mild injury and irritated recipients, but we were very forgiving as it was a beautiful day and we would much rather be slapped then have nasty huge bug bites, though these were unfortunately not entirely avoided. The slapping was to be a continuous activity through out the hike, and I would constantly wipe at my face and ask whoever was nearest and least exasperated with me if there was any blood sucking parasite of any kind on me, for I was paranoid of getting some really nasty bug bite on my face and would therefore have to go into hiding lest I look deformed and have rotten produce thrown at me until it went away. And so we continued our hike, swatting and twisting and hitting each other, all while sweating and roasting in the intense heat, despite the shade. It got mighty tiring with our backpacks and the heat and we often stopped to drink our water or get some jerky. We took our time and enjoyed ourselves, often going off the trail to explore only to discover barbed wire fences that prevented us from going any further. We did see some pretty herons in the distance though, and attempted to film them with very little success, which was quite irritating considering that we had practically waded through blackberry bushes to get there in the first place. And so we once again backtracked and went to our little trail again. The thing twisted around for what seemed an eternity, though it might have had something to do with our slow pace. We kept looking at things and examined a dead hawk wing and other various curiosities. Considering we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be, we certainly were taking our sweet time! After what seemed an eternity the trail suddenly ended, opening out into a huge picturesque field meadow type thingy with grass up to our necks, all the color of straw, and lush green clumps of trees dotted here and there like clumps of raisins in oatmeal. Don’t ask me where the raisin oatmeal analogy came from, but it really does fit! It was so absolutely beautiful it could have been a scene in Lord of the Rings. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel lost. Very lost. How far did this illegal part go? Surely if we continued on we would be back in the reserve again and we could get back to the car that way. We’d already been out there for about an hour or so. And so it was decided that we would press onward. As we walked we saw a lot of dried up mud where there was obviously once a pond of some sort. It was here that there was a lot of little tiny frogs that we would stop and exclaim over. There was literally dozens of them, so much that you had to be careful where you stepped and it seemed like we cooed over every single one! No one ever got tired of saying, “Oh look! There’s one!” It was mightily frustrating though to try not to squish them, and in the end we just kinda ran through and prayed they were fast enough to get out of the way. We walked on from there, the grass nearly eye level and very difficult to wade through as it was thick and filled with nettles and the like, as well as uneven ground. We had fortunately thought to pick up walking sticks along the trail and we held these out parallel to the ground and at chest level so that it would push the grass away from our faces as we walked through it. After some mild exploration we decided that this lush scene would go on forever and that we should try to cut through to our right and find the way into the park again. But as we searched for a way out, to our dismay we found it was as if someone had put up a solid wall of thorns, brambles, and rocks. An impenetrable barrier that despite our best efforts, we could not get through. By now we were REALLY hot and tired and our water was getting low. We would walk a ways and then try to make it through the right again only to still be cut off. We were lost and we knew it. We had the video camera with us and I left my mother a short, but still touching farewell, just in case we were unable to make it back alive. Hopefully they would find the tape on our dead bodies one day and deliver it to my mother. We continued on though, still hoping for some way back. We spent an hour or so doing this before we finally admitted that going to the right was not going to work. We often had to take breaks, but when we weren’t in the sun the mosquitoes would swarm down on us like rabid vermin, obviously quite eager to suck on new victims. We would therefore only spend a couple minutes there before we were forced to run out slapping ourselves and once again curse our forgetfulness in not bringing bug spray. After what seemed an eternity we came to a barbed wire fence and some brush, and we found a way over it, hoping to be back in the park and able to loop around to the car. It was not to be so. Instead we shortly found ourselves cut off by a small river stream thingy that was totally and completely muddy and nasty looking. Still, despite this fact it was all I could do not to leap into it, and Katie very nearly had to stop me a time or two because whether or not it bore an alarming resemblance to nesquik chocolate milk, it was still wet! We muddled around for a way to cross it for about half an hour before finally realizing it was fruitless and we turned back once more, each of us knowing that we had to trek back through the long bleak and wretched heat and return from whence we came. We were each exhausted, sweaty, tired, and above all hot. Our water was nearly gone, there was no place to rest unless you wanted to brave mosquitoes, and the constant trudging through tall grass was downright ludicrous. At one point I also had the misfortune to be bitten in the hand by a spider, which only added to my discomfort as the bite swelled up and turned a nasty shade of red. I felt like Peter Parker on Spiderman, only without the superpowers and movie deals. As we continued back through the strange prairie, I happened to notice Katie’s face. It was a peculiar shade of pink, and very flushed, despite the fact that her lips bore a bluish tinge to them. She was panting and sweating a lot and I had to admit that I was getting very worried about her. We kept asking her if she was ok, and she simply replied that she was hot. I started to imagine what would happen if she couldn’t go on, and perhaps we might have to leave her here and go get help, which would be mighty embarrassing considering we weren’t supposed to be there in the first place…We decided another rest was in order and we found a good tree to sit under, where we also miraculously discovered that there were no mosquitoes in wait for us! To this day I think that must have been an enchanted tree of some kind as it’s restorative powers were miraculous. We broke out the last of the water and the pixie sticks and proceeded to chat and enjoy our rest when I couldn’t help but notice my sister’s lips. They were still blue and pale, but to my surprise I couldn’t help but notice what appeared to be little flecks of…something around it. I squinted, stared, and studied her mouth. “Katie…” I said uncertainly. “Are you…frothing?” She turned to me with wide eyes, an expression of insult on her brow. “No!!” She denied incredulously. “What do you mean frothing?” I explained and she turned the camera, which was recording, to her face so that she could look in the view screen like a mirror. “I’m not frothing!” She declared, sounding quite offended, though I swear to this day I have my doubts as to the accuracy of that statement. A short argument ensued at which point Adrianna asked about what I meant by frothing and an explanation of rabid animals ensued. In the end we decided that rabid animals and cougars were bad and that we preferred not to run across any, though I couldn’t help but wonder if my sister qualified as one of the former… I decided to drop the frothing accusations as they didn’t seem to please Katie, and in her condition I didn’t want to get her excited. Still, I kept a close watch on her mouth the rest of the hike, which thankfully turned out to be at a quicker pace than the first half had been. Our water had gone, our mouths were dry, my sister was foamy, red, and blue lipped, though she still denies the foamy part. She claims it was pixie stick dust. Hm…maybe Katie. Maybe…

I thought we were gonna die, and yet it was the most fun I can honestly say I’ve ever had. We eventually did make it back to the car, though in the end it took about 5 hours literally. We drove out barely able to walk and promptly each bought two beverages at the nearby corner store and nearly drowned ourselves right there in the parking lot. We were covered in bug bites, dusty, dirty, sweaty, and covered in bits and pieces of brush. The mosquito bites reached record proportions, to the point of near deformity, and Katie actually was worried enough about the size of one that she drew a circle around it to make sure it didn’t grow too much and therefore make a hospital trip necessary. My spider bite too worsened and hurt, but luckily eventually went away though it took a couple weeks. We had been out in the middle of nowhere for hours, in real danger of getting heat stroke and dehydration, on illegal property, and utterly and totally lost. It was the most wonderful day of my life.