I’m going to just come right out and admit that I am thoroughly enthralled with the Laura Ingalls Wilder series of books. There…I said it. Now, just slap my ass and call me Gurdy. For the uninitiated, this series is what beget “Little House on the Prairie.” Go ahead…laugh it up bitches.

It all started when my stepdaughter brought home “Little House in the Big Woods” for me to read to her before bed. Apparently growing tired of the intriguing articles presented monthly in Surfing Magazine that had been successfully lulling her to sleep for the past year or so, she plops this little gem on the nightstand one evening. “Fuck,” I’m thinking to myself, “I don’t want to read about sunbonnets and cornmeal.” But I understand that, as a young girl, she probably has interests that are far below my radar and, if it takes the literary equivalent of playing dress up to make her happy, I’ll bite my pillow the bullet and read it to the girl. And so the adventure began.

Now, I’m doing everything I can to get her ready for bed as early as possible so I have more time to read about how Pa whittled a house out of an oak tree or how awesome it must’ve been to have your kids think a peppermint stick in their stocking was the best Christmas ever. (In all honesty, what I’d really like to read about is how they went to the bathroom. After finishing 3 intensely descriptive books covering several years, no one’s pooped!).

It’s fascinating, really. I couldn’t imagine living hand-to-mouth like those poor bastards did. I think that’s what I like about these books. They serve as reminders of just how good we have it these days. It makes me feel guilty now when I bitch at my robot vacuum for missing a spot in front of the 42-inch plasma TV because my Video iPod was left lying on the floor.

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