Welcome to St. Olaf

I had a frightening realization while watching the Golden Girls on my day off.  I realized, I’m Rose.  If you’re not a fan of the show (then you’re a complete putz and should stop reading now), then here’s a bit of background on the characters, in a nutshell.  Dorothy is the academic, Blanche is the slut, Sophia is the crazy, insensitive Sicilian mother of Dorothy, and Rose (sweet Rose), the Scandinavian ditz from a small town somewhere in the Minnesota called St. Olaf.  Never have I truly identified with one specific character, until Thursday. And so it began…

It was my day off.  One goal for the day:  to begin my Christmas cards. Not addressing them, but making them.  Last years’ card had a picture of my  baby self with Mawmaw and Pawpaw, and the secret recipe for Mawmaw’s Divinity (incidentally not a secret anymore. I would be fired as the Bush's Baked Beans dog). With this card,  I inadvertently bruised my own mother’s feelings,  because I had focused all the time and attention on my dad’s mother and her incredible, but impossibly hard, recipe for Divinity.  Mawmaw had the cameo on my cute homemade 2008 Christmas cards.

Not wanting to caste favor on one grandparent over another,  last year I promised my mom, “I’m going to use Nanny on the 2009 Christmas card”.

Next year is now. The good news… I didn’t struggle with an idea for the card. It’s been planned for 12 months.  After much digging in the old boot box of historic photos, Mom finally found a picture that would work for the “Nanny” card… a snapshot of me, my sister, and my nanny.  In the photo, it’s my birthday (which is also incidentally, this Tuesday). I am holding up 3 fingers. I was not 3, as there are clearly 4 candles on the cake.  4 candles = 4 fingers held high, right? I was 4.  And yet, I hold up 3 fingers?  And as I construct my Christmas cards (seeing the photo again and again and again as I glue them to each card") while watching the Golden Girls, it begins to sink in…

I am Rose. The "dingy-ness"cannot be blamed on too much beer in college, or a little too much time amongst the paint fumes (or herbal fumes) of the Art department.  Nope… I was ditzy from the womb.  I sometimes joke with people that I’m not book smart or street smart, but imaginary smart.  Ha, ha, ha. Maybe I should stop with the self-depreciating humor?  But at times, it can be downright embarrassing…to me.  Because unlike Rose, I’m not oblivious. If ignorance is bliss, then I need to get me some more of that.

And what infuriates me most, is that the world and its people do not acknowledge that creativity is an actual type of “smartness”! I wish the old 1980’s “Gifted and Talented” program had been implemented into the corporate America of 2000. That was a definite boost to my 7th and 8th grade self-esteem, and if it had,  I would now be an absolute career star.  Sure,  I need my GPS to get home from work most days.  I sometimes don’t “get” the joke. I give terrible directions (as evidenced by the GPS). I am still confused about Puerto Rico being a state- is it? What year was the War of 1812-- I have to think for a moment? And something that may seem obvious to everyone else… not so obvious to me.  I am Rose.

But, I’m creative smart- damn it! Give me wire, a stack of old paper, some glue and a pile of  junk and I will create… whatever you need.  Christmas cards?- done.  Cutesy gifts for friends?- I got it. My own bath products?- piece of cake. A use for the antique safety deposit boxes you picked up for a steal at the flea market?- decorative toilet paper storage- duh.  I’m truly the MacGyver of creative and crafty ingenuity, but the Rose Nylund of the everyday world. I had a neighbor when I was in grad school (yes, I went to grad school, and yet my grammar and spelling are still atrocious) that would joke that you could give me 2 sticks and a can of beans, and I could make a four course meal.  It’s true.  Creativity oozes out all my orifices, and yet I still might occasionally raise my right hand, when instructed to raise my left.  Arggh!

Other similarities to Rose? Rose speaks incessantly of Saint Olaf.  I speak and write constantly about my hometown (St. Gilmer)?  Rose is extremely involved in her local theatre troupe… and I was a theatre major for 4 semesters, before landing in Art (not too much of a leap)? Many of my stories begin with, “back in Gilmer”, rather than “back in Saint Olaf”.  And, like Rose (no thanks to “Dorothy”)  … I sometimes struggle to identify sarcasm.  And this is why I don’t watch  “The Office”.

So there it is.  I’m stripped bare.  I am Rose.  Welcome to Saint Olaf. Change into your lederhosen, get out your glugen-flugen, pull up a schnidel-viden and stay a while.  Who knows?  You may learn to brew your own beer,  make  your own sausage, or create a magnetic photo board from buttons, bailing wire, scrap metal, and old magazine clippings.  But if you do come to visit… please,  just don’t ask me how to get here.