Once upon a time 30 years ago, in a land 45 minutes north of Detroit on the I-75 corridor, Jodi got borned. It was totally awesome. She was also really a very smart baby. You could tell because she had pretty yellow hair and an elephantine vocabulary right from the git-go. Her fingers were a smidge wrinkly from entering the world 19 days late, but they dried up eventually. Yes, she overcame this early setback.

By age three, Jodi would attempt to parlay four Lincoln logs, two weeble people, and a drawing made from crayons she melted on the register into a vast fortune by flushing them down the toilet.* This humble offering would swoosh its way to the magical land of Ukraine, where the weebles would communicate with Milda, Queen of the Matryoshka Dolls, by rubbing their little egg-bellies together.



       "I love you, ok?"                     "Yep. Me too. Thanks."

Milda would then bestow obscene amounts of treasure on her fellow vertical brethren, after which they would dance – with nary a care that they might fall down, wobble though they may. Jodi's plan was simple: eliminate all suffering from the universe by tapping and redistributing the unparalleled wealth of the mythic round bodies. But the cold war continued to strike fear in the hearts of school-aged children, forcing our toddler heroine's revolutionary movement underground.

Years went by. The rock just died. Suzy? … No. Wrong story.

To be continued … maybe.




* Dad, I never meant for you to have to replace the septic tank. Sorry.