writing for ipseity

Back...and writing

2012-01-30T11:44:00.002-06:00

I've made two promises to myself this year: one, I will finally lose some baby weight I've carried around for twelve years, and two, I will prepare one of my three, potential books for publication. I have eleven months to complete these goals. Both, I believe, are obtainable.

So, why am I blogging? This is where I will sand off the rust. I don't expect anyone to read this, and it won't connect to weight loss or my other writing endeavors. It will be a form of exercise for the mind and the fingers. Maybe it will help with the first goal of weight loss. I'll have to start slamming on the keyboard for that to happen, I fear. I have a lot of work to do...

The First Date

2009-08-31T21:58:00.002-05:00

My "baby" went out on a first date tonight, with a clean-cut kid sporting the latest hair style and too much Hollister cologne. When he came through the door, he smiled at me. Then he said, "It's nice to meet you," and he held out his hand. I wanted to squeeze it and warn, "Take care of my baby...or else," but instead I politely shook it and offered, "It's nice to meet you, too." At least the kid knows his manners.

A Sound Marketing Choice?

2009-07-16T22:47:00.003-05:00

If you're walking in a parade and your business is pet cremation, should you use living dogs to help you advertise? Just wondering.

P.S. Look closely at the SUV.

Mosquitos and Knives

2009-07-06T22:31:00.003-05:00

It's summertime in the land of 10,000 (x 1,000,000) mosquitoes! It's hard to escape the swatting and bleeding. It bums me out. In fact, I've started seeing blood everywhere. Call me Lady MacBeth. Find that hard to believe?

Today, I was visited by a young person selling knives, door to door, hoping to make a little money for college. The sales pitch was just about flawless, but I couldn't get over two minor details. On one of the seller's thumbs was a large, white bandage. On the same hand, I swear I saw dried blood. When it came time to pitch the large, serrated knife, the seller looked up and said, "The knives are very sharp; I tried to cut through a watermelon and nearly sliced off my thumb!" I just nodded in acknowledgment.

(2 Months Ago) The View from the Kitchen Window

2009-06-25T11:45:00.003-05:00

I had suds on my hands, but I managed to look up and out the window. This is what I saw:

Addendum to Quiet Desperation

2009-06-23T20:56:00.002-05:00

This is why people don't discuss their "quiet desperation"... people may confuse that with simple desperation. So as not to confuse the two, let me assure I only suffer quiet desperation. Most of the time, I enjoy my own Concord, without having to visit Walden. (The metaphor is tiring; thanks, Mr. Thoreau.)

My Concord? The backyard on a summer evening, complete with a bonfire and a whole neighborhood of kids running around playing night games. It's just too much gleeful squealing for quiet desperation.

Quiet Desperation

2009-06-23T17:05:00.003-05:00

Was Thoreau right? Do we all lead lives of quiet desperation and die with a song still in us? Funny thought, especially from a guy who "went out into the woods" a few blocks away from home and the family pencil business. He knew what he was talking about.

Sarcasm aside, he might have been right. The trouble with the song inside is most of us don't realize it. We're busy. We don't stop to ask why we're busy. We simply accept, "We're busy living!"

In the play, A Delicate Balance, one of couples runs to their friends' house claiming they're scared. They don't know why they're scared. They just are. It seemed like an odd line while I was sitting in the cool theater. Scared? About what? At the time, I listened and heard a traditional type of scared, the type that causes the pulse to take off and palms drip with sweat. I didn't hear the psychological fear that questions, "This is it?" That type of fear only comes when we stop being busy and start paying attention.

That fear is closely tied to living lives of quiet desperation. It's part of all of us, isn't it? We don't tell each other, though. Our society wants us busy. Thoreau knew this. It's why he went out into the woods, even if the woods were blocks from home.

Graduation and Animal Tales

2009-05-31T20:43:00.005-05:00

What is it with me, graduation parties, and animal stories?! A few years ago I wrote about my conversation with a woman. This woman told me her story of her pet rabbits that had maggots climb into their anuses when she put them outside for fresh air. The whole story/conversation happened – quite seriously – over a plateful of hors d'voeures at a graduation party.

Well, deva vu, only this time the animal at the heart of the conversation was a ferret. I will admit that I invited, maybe even encouraged, the conversation this time, by holding – without thinking – my 3.06 oz toy poodle who was dressed for the party in her grungy, Kurt Cobain-ish, turtleneck sweater made from an old, human sweater sleeve. I'm sure my dog's cuteness said, "Talk to my owner...anyone who has me must be an animal lover!" In any event, the dog encouraged conversation. It started like this:

"Oh my goodness, that's such a cute dog! She reminds me of my pet ferret, well, the ferret is no longer living. Sadly, I had to put it to sleep after only six years because it suffered from epilepsy!"

A ferret with epilepsy? I couldn't get past the image. Then there was the "only" qualifier. Wow, I had no idea ferrets lived longer than six years. I stared at her, speechless, but then noticed her husband nodding his head as she spoke. He was in complete agreement. The woman continued:

"We were heartbroken when we had to put our baby to sleep. We were so used to his kisses. He'd kiss us every morning when we first woke up."

Her husband chimed in, "Yeah, except when he got lost in the vents of the house. Then we wouldn't see him for days." (I tried hard not to imagine a ferret running through the vents of a house.)

"But, [insert daughter's name] always knew how to get him out of the vents," the woman defended. "Our ferret came when our daughter blew a whistle. Amazing."

And then, silence.

How was I supposed to respond to that? They were grieving a dead ferret, one that had epilepsy and ran through the vents of the their house, only to return by the sound of a whistle. They kissed it. My dog was cute, but that was about it. And, it was another graduation party, and I was holding a plate full of hors d'voeures.

These boots were made for walkin'

2009-02-25T21:49:00.002-06:00

We have a new member in our evening workout menagerie: the foot doctor. Podiatrist is his official title, but any man who wears black crew socks, with his New Balance running shoes, while walking on the treadmill, is an ordinary foot doctor. Black crew socks? Surely, he wants to be noticed and become the subject of someone's boring blog. Black?

Fitness Club Observations...again.

2009-02-11T17:52:00.002-06:00

It has been some time since I've written about the fitness club, but it's time again.

The fitness club and I have had a long history. To find out about earlier incidents, games, etc., read back through the blog. I know, it's a tedious request. I don't even read this garbage. I just write, and I have no idea why I do.

I digress.

Just trust me the fitness club has always had its characters. I'm not sure if they really are remarkable characters, or if I'm just so pathetically bored with exercise I notice every detail about them. It could be both.

In the past, I've written about a few. Most are not there anymore. I suppose they get bored like I do and instead of observing, they quit.

Now there are all new members at the club. They are the night exercisers, like HH and I. They are fascinating to me.

There is the doctor. She reads on the elliptical and the treadmill. I know she is a doctor because, on occasion, she has swabbed our children's throats for Strep. When she exercises, she never looks up. Every so often, she suddenly bolts out of the club at full throttle when her phone rings. It scares me. I imagine someone dying at the hospital, followed by her rapid arrival fresh off the 4.0 pace and 3 incline, sweating, panting, possessing a target heart rate that isn't good for removing a splinter let alone performing surgery. It gives me the heebie jeebies, but I like her. I'm sure her life is 1000 times busier than mine, and she manages to exercise nightly. Also, she isn't in the best shape. I like doctors who are humanly flawed like the rest of us. Plus, she offers security. If I collapse, I'm covered.

Along with the doctor, there is Michael Moore. He's a walker who looks exactly like Michael Moore, right down to his hair style and baseball cap. That's it.

Next to Michael is Charlie, short for Charles Manson. I don't spend much time observing him, though, because he scares me. He looks like Charles Manson: long stringy gray hair, sunken eyes, angry nostrils. I met his gaze once and decided I should focus on others. When he glares at me, I mumble, "Helter Skelter," at a whisper.

There is the lifter. He's rather nondescript. He's average height, average weight, average muscle mass. He has normally pale skin and dishwater blonde hair. He would be unnoticeable if it weren't for his strength: 650 pounds on the leg weights! No kidding. I make sure he's half way across the club when I do my 30 pound chest presses. Usually, I'm OK because he doesn't venture over to the jippy Matrix weight equipment, where the wimps exercise (intentionally bad pun) feeble attempts at creating definition in their soggy bodies...me. He hangs out with the big boy free weights. He smiles when I look at him. He's probably laughing.

Finally, there are the jelly bean girls. They work together, like Doublemint gum! They find equipment next to each other and they keep the same pace. They have the same hairstyle; but best of all, they wear the exact same shirts and they're dayglow green! Dayglow green, jelly beans! The color is bold beyond imagination. It looks phosphorescent, radioactive, toxic. It attracts me like a lake bug to a porch light. I try to look away, but I always return. It shocks my ADD like a taser. I really hope they haven't noticed. There is some type of printing on the fronts, too. Who knows what the printing says; the color obstructs the writing. The color obstructs everything...

Where was I?

Right, the others! There are others who I will write about, but not now. I've lost focus. Blame it on the green.

In conclusion (God, I hate that!)...
I don't want to give the wrong impression about my observations. If this seems like I'm being nasty, I assure I am not. I like these people. They are my support group. When the idea of walking three steps bums me out, and it does, I consider who might be at the fitness center to "greet" me. It's enough motivation for me to grab my shoes, water bottle, and actually look forward to sweating. That is impressive. I could not do it without them.

Wrong on Many Levels

2009-01-22T17:04:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, I went to K-Mart with OMD and OYD. When we were checking out, we were greeted by the uber-enthusiastic, gray-pony-tailed check out clerk. This wasn't the balding grey-pony-tailed check out clerk, but the younger, 50ish one. This one loves her job and babbles endlessly while she rings up the merchandise. Who am I to criticize, right?!

Anyway, after she rang up our items, she asked if I'd be interested in receiving e-mail coupons (yeah, right). I politely said, "No," but could tell immediately that I had disappointed her. I offered a bit of an apology and some hope: "Well, I won't give you my e-mail now, but I might give it to you in the future. My oldest daughter has told me that I could receive e-mail from businesses if I set up a separate account. I might do that."

Her smile returned and her eyes lit up, as if memory was match-like. Then, she gave the confession in one long breath:

"Ya know, I had to do that after my fourteen year old son returned from Boy Scout camp and began putting all kinds of X rated material on our home computer. That's right. I was mad and he was mad and we had to set up a separate e-mail account just for him!"

I was speechless.

Since OMD and OYD were with me, I tried not to react. I simply said, "Well, thanks. Have a nice day," even though that should have been – traditionally – her line.

The girls and I walked out of the store in silence. We hadn't walked two steps when OMD, in a monotonously calm voice said, "Wow, that was wrong on many levels: Boy Scouts, X-rated, E-mail, and she told it all!"

We all laughed our way through the parking lot to the car.

A New Year. A New Solution. Same Old Problem.

2009-01-04T14:26:00.002-06:00

There's much to write, but time is squeezing me. I hate that. Dang clocks.

When I'm queen, I'll ban all methods of time keeping and all time pieces. Wouldn't that be something? We'd all show up when we wanted/if we wanted. No one would be late, but some might miss out. Hmm, sort of a Time Rapture. Some left behind. I will think about that for the new year, since being on time is one of my New Year's resolutions...again.

Last year, I vowed I'd be on time sending birthday cards and presents. I made it to September, but then Labor Day happened and I labored. I will be better this year.

One area where time doesn't have its hold on me is aging. I don't care that I'm aging. I feel that the more I age, the more calm I become. It's a trade off. I give my youth and I'm granted some serenity, some peace of mind. Oh, it's true I color my hair, but I'd rather just let it go gray. It would be easier gray... and cheaper. However, my gray hair results in business for a dear friend. She's a beautician and shop owner. I think my hair-do helps pay her rent. So, anti-aging – in this sense – helps someone else. When my friend quits her business, I will go gray. By then, I might just being going white!

Yeah, if I'm honest about time and aging, I should confess about the "angry" wrinkle along with my hair. Note the focus on "angry". The "angry" wrinkle: the wrinkle between my eyes, from years of whole face concentrating, that makes me look cynical and angry. I didn't really notice my own "angry" wrinkle until I read a piece by a writer who educated me. This writer gave the wrinkle a name, while simultaneously granting Botox a serious purpose, at least for me. No, I won't Botox for two reasons: 1) Sheer principle of rising above vanity 2)Bad luck universal that would leave me with a droopy-stroke-like eye, no doubt. But, I really hate the "angry" wrinkle. It's a cruel gift from time, not because it makes me look old, but angry.

But time has its merits, too. It gave me my favorite velveteen jeans. When I bought them, three years ago, they were just jeans. Comfortable, but nothing special. With the help of time, they became properly worn, amazingly soft, expertly faded, and perfect. Well, until last week, they were perfect. With time, they gained fragility. All it took was a quick bend to pick up a Bobbie pin. Krrggkkiipppp! Time had its way with my velveteen jeans. I fixed them...with duct tape. I'm not kidding. When I first examined the damage from the rip, I knew it was unrepairable. It wasn't in the seam, it was next to the seam. Any attempt to sew the rip would have resulted in odd puckering. No one wants puckering in the crotch area of pants, no one. Desperately, I tried the duct tape (now sold in "fashionable" colors under the brand name, Duck, so original), and it worked.

So, maybe that's the secret: there's no fighting time. If a person tries to fight time, the person will lose. There is only working with time or repairing its damage in creative, imaginative ways. For now, there are no kings or queens banning it, and I have not been handed my crown. The New Year's resolution I made this year involves time, but there is an amendment:

"I will work to follow the civilized world's notions of time management. If, however, I fail in doing so, I will secure a roll of duct tape and rely on creativity!"

The Neighbors Again...

2008-10-03T23:49:00.002-05:00

Two days ago, I heard a horrific howling sound. The neighbor's black cat (so clichè) was howling on our front step. I shooed it away. Last night, I saw the neighbors' two children run by my living room window at 10:00 PM, on a school night. I ran out to see what was the matter. Evidently, the black cat ran away. I tried to help them locate it, but it was hiding out in our back yard, behind the swing set. It didn't want anything to do with humans. I wasn't surprised. Today, when I came home, I saw a flatbed truck at the neighbor's house. The neighbors had a new, rusted out, mini-pick up truck delivered. Really, it's some sort of 70s sedan with a pick up bed instead of a back seat; I swear. Super! I'm sure that it will take months before the pick up is running as smoothly as the El Camino. HH made an interesting and positive observation, however. He said, "On the positive side, the neighbors are draining their pool today!" Way to point out the obvious. This morning's temperature was 39º. I'm glad the neighbors are draining the water before it turns to ICE!

A Fall Hiking Song

2008-10-01T23:11:00.004-05:00

Poems will jam when read
– will jam
– will jam
when read!

And THAT will keep us
free from DUH, duh, duh, duh.
Duh.

Only at the MN State Fair...

2008-09-25T21:51:00.007-05:00

I love the state fair. I know, it's a gross place to love. But, I love it because it's so...quirky. Every year we try something new. This is what we tried this year:

• The pickle popsicle (positively gross)
• Deep fried pickles (surprisingly good)
• Big Fat Bacon on a stick (I couldn't even stomach it to try)
• Lingonberry ice cream (the ice cream was good, but the lingonberries were so sour that
when combined with the ice cream...vomit)

Knock, Knock!

2008-09-24T22:23:00.002-05:00

Who's there?
America.
America who?
America who wants her country returned to the middle class.

Wall Street? Bush? Cheney? Are you listening?
We want our country back...you know, the country you stole...
and sold to your wealthy friends!

New Car

2008-09-03T23:36:00.002-05:00

The neighbors have a new car. It's a beaut. If one looks closely, the El Camino is there, too.

Tomorrow and tomorrow...polysyndeton like

2008-08-15T01:24:00.003-05:00

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

etc., etc., etc.,

I love when my life is so dang busy I can only describe it by using Shakespeare's polysyndeton. I need only one tomorrow...no conjunctions.

It will happen. Tomorrow I will take off on a small family camping trip. I'll visit the Spam Museum, and I'll come back to life...as most know it.

When I return, I'll upload some photos. Also, I might just have an answer to my question: I know the "am" stands for ham, but does the "Sp" stand for suet please? (Suet please and ham: Spam!)

Neighbor's Pool

2008-07-05T01:32:00.003-05:00

Two posts ago, I wondered if the neighbor's pool survived their storage technique: duct tape. Well, it did. The pool went up a couple of days ago, and while we don't see it anymore, we hear the splashing. Summer is here.

4th of July in Small Town, USA

2008-07-05T01:08:00.003-05:00

It's a tradition. Every year, we drive up the highway about 30 miles to go to a typical small town 4th of July parade. Every year this small town's parade has the usual floats: queens and princesses heading to Minneapolis to compete in the Aquatennial; a plethora of tractors (the John Deeres are always received with loud whooping); squealing emergency vehicles (they come from a 25 mile radius to show off their flashy lights and sirens); and there are horses. Lots and lots of horses.

Today's parade was no exception. Each float threw candy, oodles and oodles of candy; and many of the float drivers looked like they had been drinking all morning. It is my favorite 4th of July event for one reason: people watching.

Today's parade people watching did not disappoint me. I loved watching the sunny, Scandinavian descendant kids muscling their way to the candy. They were adorable. But, my favorite sight of the day was the bra stuffer. That's right! At the end of the parade, the pudgy vocal woman in front of us (the one who offered two Tootsie Rolls in exchange for my Toy Poodle), grabbed the stash of candy she had collected and began stuffing it into her bra. She managed to fit about three handfuls in both cups. Amazing. As we all walked away, I commented on the usefulness of having a bra stuffed with candy, especially if one planned a day of drinking. My oldest daughter looked at me and said, "That's SO gross!"

It makes me want to try it.

Coming up...

2008-06-12T21:33:00.004-05:00

Next week is the last dance show of the season. More photos (and analysis) to come.

Old Friends

2008-06-01T23:08:00.003-05:00

I saw an old friend today. We've known each other for years. He said since fifth grade; I said since sixth. Neither could remember all of the teachers in either of those grades. We're getting old, but that time seems like yesterday. Time is odd that way.

In the middle of our visit he said, "Are you still writing?" It was a question that evoked both guilt and desire. I feel guilty that I haven't written and I want to write...but there isn't enough time. I do what I can.

The Wall

2008-05-31T23:24:00.002-05:00

Well, or should I say wAll, it's done. The six foot wall down the side of my house and across the back, is finished. I love it, but it also bothers me. Over and over, I hear the line from Frost's poem, "Something there is that doesn't love a wall" (Mending Wall). For someone who has endured the neighbor's "treasures" for the past eight years, I really shouldn't feel guilty. Here is a sampling of those treasures:

For the first couple of years, there was an aluminum rack in the front yard. It was a large cookie cooling rack, the kind that Subway uses to cool their French loaves. We got used to seeing it, perched up against their house, just left of their front steps and next to a large arborvitae. Then one day, it seemed to disappear. When we looked closer, we realized it never disappeared, the arborvitae grew around it. I'm sure it's still there.

Along with the cookie rack, there have been a series of appliances gracing their lawn. Twice there have been refrigerators stashed on the side of their house; twice there have been stoves occupying the same spaces. One day, HH noted that a flat bed truck had pulled up into their drive way, and just about the time HH was feeling pleased the truck was surely going to haul away some crap, it dropped off more instead.

There have been bicycles and lawnmowers, go carts and minibikes, remote control cars and four cars...including the El Camino. There have been pools. First there was the baby pool. When that deflated, they placed a larger (4 ft deep) pool right on top of it. They managed to get it down for two years running, right before a hard freeze. This year we haven't seen it yet, but that might have something to do with the duct tape used to store it last fall (I've already written about that episode). But, there is still time for the pool to come out this season.

Oh yes, there is crap. There is the pop-up camper that calmed us down during one of our worst storms of the season last year. As the winds and rains bent the trees nearly to the ground, we fixated on the neighbor's camper. It was still up, flaps unzipped and blowing like crazy, puffed up like Jiffy-Pop Popcorn on a hot campfire. It was an amazing sight! We watched it, as if it were a storm barometer. There would be no need to seek shelter in the basement unless we witnessed the camper take off into the air. It never happened.

And if the treasures in the yard weren't enough, there is the house itself. The paint is almost off and much of the wood is rotting. For the past eight years the window trim is only painted on the lower half of the windows. When asked about this, the neighbor simply replied that he painted to where he could reach without a ladder. The front steps are covered, or were covered, with bright green faux astro-turf (an oxymoron?), that is peeling down the center like a broken toe blister.

Finally...there is the fence, the chain-link fence that follows no rules about coordinated height; that has one side rolled up and opened so the camper and pool can travel freely between the side yard and the driveway.

And, up until this winter, I tolerated it all. That is until the stove pipe went into the side of their garage wall. That's right... a giant, black stove pipe. My first reaction said, "illegal activity," but HH pointed out that they didn't seem smart enough. He had a point. Anyone who duct tapes a pool probably can't figure out an illegal business. But, that's what finally caused me to say, "Put up a wall."

It's a wonderful wall; it really is. I don't see the cars, bikes, appliances, or other treasures. On the other hand, I don't really see the neighbors at all. And, Frost's poem still haunts me. Am I keeping the neighbors out, or am I keeping myself in? Literally, figuratively, maybe a bit of both. For now, however, I'll admire the wooden privacy planks and leave the philosophizing for another day.

Words...

2008-05-08T23:46:00.003-05:00

Words unheard
are sweetness not tasted
close and safe
yet, possibly wasted.
Tomorrow's promise,
or yesterday's blunder...
Kept near the surface,
but always under.

My Odd Humor

2008-05-08T23:35:00.004-05:00

My humor is odd, at least to some people. On a recent trip to the desert, I came upon a sign:

Then a few yards from the sign, I saw this:

I laughed out loud. Snakes and Lizards had obviously been in the area.

Desert Love

2008-05-08T23:17:00.003-05:00

Recently, I visited an old friend's blog. He had a post: Desert Love. It struck a cord, an old familiar tune. Those of us who have lived the desert, call it home. Recently, I revisited a desert, not my desert, but a desert. It overwhelmed me and this is the result:

Hello.

Hello, desert, my old friend.
It has been years–
Yet, with wispy winds
whistling through smooth canyons,
you stretch out a brittle
rolling hand
to greet me.
Without words, we greet each other–
in silence and solitude,
the familiarity of old friends
not forgotten.
Hello.

From Canyon to Vail:

The Painted Desert
stretches
to Monument Valley
to buttes and bluffs
and Mexican Hats
Guiding us
to Moab.
Red and green and yellow,
soft, hard, sharp, smooth-
showing the way
to rocks, mountains, snow
so grand.
Breathless.
Sky warm and clear
as quartzite
Too much beauty in one day.

whatever

2008-05-08T22:54:00.002-05:00

whatever, whatever, she said: whatever.

Mags

2008-03-19T23:35:00.002-05:00

We went on vacation to relax and feel the cheer of the sun. Sadly, we learned that our loving Magnuson died tonight. She will be greatly missed.

Rubes!

2008-01-29T08:37:00.000-06:00

I haven't written in almost two months; it has been that busy. I still don't have time to write, but I have time to share. We have a new "baby" here. Her name is Ruby Bluesday and she is a one pound, Toy Poodle. She's going to be very spoiled.

Thanks!

2007-11-21T22:51:00.000-06:00

A short time ago, I wrote a list about my loves. Tonight, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I'll write about that which gives me thanks (talk about writing around the possibility of ending in the preposition, "for"!). I could be cynical, but I won't. This list will be completely random, whatever comes to mind. I probably won't focus on the obvious: health, family, shelter, spirituality, etc. Obviously, I'm thankful for those. Here's what you might not know.
I'm thankful for:
HH's geeky brain and his love for me when I'm ugly
OYD's eye rolls and her giggle
OMD's funny stories of characters at her school
OOD's fashion sense and advice
Reindeer Blend coffee at Caribou
Students who look happy to see me
Pentel pens (This might be on my "I love" list)
My cell phone
My iBook
Blood red nailpolish
Lipstick that doesn't bleed
Dr. Bronner's Lavender soap
A nudge from my dog
Great writing that makes me laugh or cry outloud
Classical music, even if I don't know the composer(s)
The Weather Channel
Curry
Pumpkin pie
The strong ladies at my church
Our current president will soon be out of office

And last, but not least, the obvious: my family, our health, my job, financial security, freedom, my faith, and peace! Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you find reasons to be thankful.

2007-11-17T09:04:00.001-06:00

HH is in Canada. He's working, but he's someplace new. It makes me jealous.
This morning I received an e-mail from my friend, Periwinkle, a flight attendant. She's in Amsterdam. I'm jealous of that, too.

That's the bad part of being a third culture kid: I need to travel. I haven't been further than sixty miles of my house in months.

I'm here. Same old place.

And, I woke this morning to snow on the ground and flakes in the air. It's going to be a long day...

But...

2007-11-16T17:08:00.000-06:00

I have so many funny stories to write about...

Like this week's tennis banquet where the coaches spoke for two hours, mostly about their successes as coaches at other schools.

Or, my experience with the Christmas lights and blown fuses.

Or, my daughters' reactions to attending an organ concert with Grandma.

Or, the neighbors' method for putting away their Doughboy pool with duct tape.

Or, how I'm managing to survive as a "single" mom since HH's new job requires quite a bit of travel.

So many stories...

But, I can't write them right now. Right now, work calls. And calls! And calls!

And, this is my horoscope for today:

You have been swimming along the outer edges of consciousness, but may be called back to reality now in order to meet your obligations to others. You might not have much wiggle room; you must deliver the promised goods. So set aside your dreams for a while as you deal with the more practical side of your life.

And, reality bites.

Spelling Bee Sting

2007-10-29T22:19:00.000-05:00

OYD received a 44% on her last spelling test. That scored doesn't reflect her normal work, but it told me that she didn't practice her words when she said she did. We discussed it, and hopefully she'll do better in the future. Feeling better about the situation, she showed me the actual test. The teacher had written, "Did you study?" across the top. Then, next to each misspelled word, OYD had written the word correctly, five times, and wrote a sentence using the word. This is the "standard" punishment for misspelled words: Write the word five times and then make up your own sentence using the word.

I read through the list.

I came to the word, "congratulations," and saw that she had spelled it correctly five times. Then, I read her sentence: "Congratulations on winning the Spelling Bee!"

Smart third grader! I wonder if her teacher caught the sarcasm?! I did. I laughed.

What did she mean by that?

2007-10-28T19:01:00.000-05:00

One younger sister to another older sister...

OYD to OOD: Your hair looks like Philadelphia.

OOD: My hair looks like WHAT?

OYD: Philadelphia.

OOD: What do you mean by THAT?

OYD: I don't know. It just does.

Pumpkin Muffin Update

2007-10-24T08:27:00.000-05:00

I woke the girls early to enjoy their pumpkin muffins. They each took one bite and put them back on their plates. "Can we have S'Morz cereal?"

It was probably the texture. I didn't realize that cooked pumpkin tends to sweat if it's covered. Now, I just need to figure out how to swab the pies so I can serve those after dinner.

The Consequences of Guilt and a Pumpkin Patch

2007-10-23T22:44:00.000-05:00

Do I need to say I'm exhausted? Maybe. But, I'm sitting here killing time while my pumpkin pies bake. That's right, pumpkin pie baking at almost midnight. I should earn some sort of Mommy Girl Scout badge for this. This is why...

OYD woke up this morning in a bad mood. Unusual for her, but it was a nasty mood. She had to be to school early, and nothing was working right. About the time we were about to leave (at least on my clock), I looked over to see her writing with fury. "What in the world are you DOING?" I heard myself shout. "I'm filling out my reading slip, Mom!"
"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: we finish our homework at night!"
"I know, MOM. I wasn't done with the book, so I couldn't fill out the slip."
"You didn't finish the book because you were playing Mario on your Gameboy!"
Had she been playing Mario? I had no idea because HH and I had gone on a date and wasted two hours at that crappy Dane Cook movie. The name escapes me; that's how "good" it was. We had trusted OOD to babysit, make sure homework was completed and everyone was clean and snug in bed by the time we returned. Obviously, the chain of command had failed.
"Let's go, OYD, you're going to be late," I pleaded this morning.
"I KNOW Mom..." and then came tears. Lots of tears.
I felt about a foot high. Yes, I felt horrifically guilty, and that's what lead to the pumpkin patch!

OYD had a Girl Scout field trip today, to a farm/petting zoo/pumpkin patch. Knowing that the morning didn't go anywhere close to a Leave it to Beaver, morning, I called the Girl Scout leader and asked if I could go along on the field trip. She said, "Of course," almost too eagerly, and I was sucked in.

I met the girls at school and when OYD saw me, she said, "The other girls are going to ride with friends, but I want to ride with you, Mommy!" It was payment for the trip ahead, and it was worth it.

We got to the farm and boarded the tractor trolley (mmm) for the corn maze. Corn maze? Are you kidding me? I can't find my way around Target! I felt in my pocket for my cell phone. If all else failed, I could call for help. Although, when I first saw the maze, I knew I wouldn't need the phone. I could trample my way out, if necessary. And so, we did the maze. OYD loved it, but also noted that we could "cheat" and just trample our way to the end. That's my girl!

After the corn maze, we headed to the pumpkin patch. The girls each picked out a pumpkin. One of the other little Girl Scouts said, "I'm going to paint my pumpkin," and then it happened...
The tractor grandma said, "Oh honey, those aren't paintin' punkins, those're bakin' punkins!"
Way to go, Granny Yokum! It took less than a second for OYD to respond.
"Oh Mom, will you bake a pie with my pumpkin?" (Eyes the size of half dollars and dimples showing...) How could I turn her down? She had a miserable day because she chose Mario over homework last night, and the pie would soothe everything. "Sure honey, we'll stop at the store, on the way home, for the rest of the ingredients." (Dammit!)

The problem was I had never made a pumpkin pie from scratch, well, not from a real pumpkin. HH recommended I buy the Libby's can and figure out the recipe from that, but how do you substitute 15 oz of puree for the fresh stuff? I had no choice but to take his advice. Unfortunately, I also had no idea how many ounces a real pumpkin would yield.

Just in case, I decided to cook two pumpkins. After a quick Google search, I learned that I would have to precook the pumpkin. That would take one hour and there would be no pumpkin pie for dessert. OYD puzzled this and said, "Then, will you make muffins for breakfast?" Pumpkin pie had just become pumpkin pie and muffins.

No big deal. After cooking up the pumpkins, I knew I'd have enough pumpkin for pie and muffins. I started to scramble; I wanted to finish the baking early.

Then I heard screaming. OOD, in a teenage moment, decided to have a melt down in front of the mirror, while setting her hair in curlers. Truthfully, I have no idea what started the outburst, but I could hear myself, as if floating from above, say, "I don't care that you only have half of your head in curlers; I have no idea why you're freaking out, so take them OUT and go to BED!"

I'm pretty sure that's where I forgot to add sugar to the muffin recipe...only I didn't discover it until I had already cooked them and had started on the pies. Thank God I had so much extra pumpkin.

I mixed up the pie batter, tasted the un-sweetened muffins (they might have been Play-doh), and decided to make a new batch of muffins. That was forty minutes ago. Now...

The second set of muffins are done. They're sweeter than the first batch, and I'm still waiting on the pies.

Tomorrow, the girls will all have pumpkin muffins or pumpkin pie for breakfast. I will not lose my patience, no matter what the circumstance, because this late night "guilty" baking is something I don't want to repeat.

Random Poems

2007-10-21T23:21:00.000-05:00

Loss:
You are gone
and here
and going
A snow angel
that melts
in the spring air
It leaves a faded imprint
but also
a memory.

Flagpole:
Yearning and young
grass
and smoking
dreaming
and fear
of growing old.
A foot in the cradle
of a looped rope
on a flagpole.
Palms up
toward the sun
youth spinning.

Random Haiku:

Nasturtiums
Dance across my plate
Spring romance.

Raindrops fall
Down the frosted glass
Morning bliss.

Pink Floyd sings
A room of strangers
See me leave.

A Writers' Conference

2007-10-15T21:41:00.000-05:00

She studied and wrote about ponies, but felt the boys were left out. She added stallions for them.

He wore two plaid, polyester blouses, rolled jeans, a brown Munsingwear cardigan with holes, and dingy Converse high tops. He twirled the back of his hair. Round and round. He looked like Kerouac, but didn't write anything.

His girl friend was older, motherly. She nodded approvingly or skeptically.

A younger girl sat nervously twitching. She chewed her nails to the nubs and licked the outside of her water bottle. She was excited and pale.

He was also young. He didn't make eye contact and cringed when spoken to. He wrote about history and fantasy. He was interested in the one who wrote about ponies and stallions.

The mother was smiling and proud. She appeared without eyelashes or thoughts.

The other mother talked of children who hated each other. She stressed the hated part.

One woman obsessed about war while another whole room discussed romance.

And hearing him speak of writing, success and failure, love and loss, life and death, was worth the trip to the writer's conference.

Love

2007-10-08T23:00:00.000-05:00

Love more things than you hate.
A random list...

Currently, I love:

My husband, HH, who has stood by my many different moods over the years and has never lost faith in me. He has followed my creative craziness wherever it has lead me. I love his liberal politics, too, and his freckles. I love his loyalty.

I love my children who remind me that I have a purpose in life. I love how they remind me to giggle and take life (and my many causes) far less seriously. I love how they get my twisted sense of humor and burrow in my arms.

I love my mom. She has always been there for me. She smokes, which I don't love, but she also doesn't give a shit what people think...I love that billowy sassiness!

I love my extended family: my brothers, sisters in law, brother in law, inlaws and outlaws. I love my nieces and nephews. My life is richer because of them all. They allow me to see myself through their eyes, no matter what the reflection.

I love my dog. She's large, woolly, sloppy, and stupid in a smart way. She licks my face when I'm sad. No need for further explanation. I love the smell of Jasmine and Sandalwood.

I love my friends, my old and new, my young and young-in-the-mind friends. I love the call of loons on the lake.

I love artichokes and licorice Snaps. I love Pentel pens, new smelly markers, and jokes that make my eyes tear. I love to dance and sing, and I love Bob Dylan. I love sappy musicals and sarcastic, cynical writing (except for this post). I love David Sedaris and I love hymns from our red hymnal in church.

I love Old Dutch potato chips and ice cold Coca-Cola. I love poetry that makes me cry and slaps me for being human. I love the cricket that chirps in my downstairs bathroom, even if it makes the rest of the family crazy.

I love kissing on a brisk autumn night and feeling my cold nose against a warm cheek. I love the desert during a meteor shower. I love campfires and camping, and the sensation of landing in an airplane.

I love the warmth of the sun beating down on my shoulders on a sunny, June day, and I love the peace of an orange and purple sunset. I love.

Flooded Memories

2007-09-30T21:46:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling sick...sick about memories that were flooded out and washed away. Literally.
This past week, we had a plumbing problem and what was lost? No, not the felt and rubber cement Halloween costumes that – for reasons beyond explanation – I insisted we saved. No, not the excess Princess party supplies (miscellaneous cups, hats and forks) I felt sure we'd use again. No, not the cases or crappy toys I intended to put on the next garage sale, only to have them retrieved by a child and later placed in a box for the "next garage sale." No, not those. None of the incidental, accumulated junk was ruined. Why would it?

No, I lost irreplaceables. The sewer soaked my pictures and my books, and swallowed my memories at the same time. When I discovered what had happened, it was too late. My sorority composite pictures, ink smeared and sticky, were gummed to the back of my high school yearbook. This was not just any yearbook, either; it was my graduating year. And, each page in that "graduating year" yearbook was solidly glued together, as if to say, "Goodbye, forever." My heart sank.

I didn't throw away the mess for three days. I couldn't. I sat and looked at it. It was like looking at a loved one in a coffin, knowing that soon the last glance would be over. And, when I finally threw it all away, I had the same sensation that I had when I lost my dad, or even my dog this past summer. It's a sensation that goes beyond sorrow to...the unexplainable. Those who have lost someone know this sensation, and you know how hard this was to bundle up the soggy mess and dump it in the trash.

expression

2007-09-24T23:35:00.000-05:00

So, today I was thinking that maybe – just maybe – I express myself too honestly and freely. I couldn't shake the need to "go underground," and basically stop writing (the hard copy poetry book I keep is getting thick and sludgy). Besides, who opens up like this to strangers, or worse yet, family and friends? It left me unsettled.

But then, I happened upon my horoscope. I used to say that horoscopes were spooky, kooky nothings, but I've noticed a *wisdom* to them, I'm still trying to decipher. Here is today's horoscope:

Today's Pisces Horoscope
February 19 - March 20
You need to start understanding that expressing yourself is necessary to get you to the next level of happiness. In other words, for a healthier life, you need to share your feelings -- no matter what they are. So today, whenever you feel something, express it in the most original and creative way you can. Singing, dancing, cooking or even just goofing around are all great ways to display how you're feeling. If you keep your emotions inside or mask them, you'll be wasting your time.

There, written in the stars, is the answer to my questions. I still need to write...for now.

Feeling like...

2007-09-23T20:38:00.001-05:00

For Pam - A thank you.

2007-09-12T22:39:00.000-05:00

The Gardener

So near these walls a garden grows,
and children planted in this place,
talk lovingly about the days,
the gardener would work to sow –
love.

While some plants came as simple seeds,
planted from birth by tender hands,
protected always from life’s demands,
the gardener would always be –
faithful.

She’d spread herself among the crop,
trimming, pruning, giving her care,
to children, adults, blooming there.
She never showed desire to stop –
her generosity.

And laughter was heard from that place,
as kindness and fellowship grew
into roses and iris blooms,
a garden church blessed by her grace –
and joy.

The gardener worked for years there
days and nights in sunshine, in rain,
in storms sheltered plants, again, again –
with gentleness.

The garden thrived and plants bore fruit,
growing over walls and stained glass,
spreading the gardener’s messag-es:
God, Son, love, fellow pursuit –
of peace.

Then one day…

The gardener paused and saw,
her work so perfect and blooming,
each family of plant producing
fruit. Generations from her awe-some –
goodness.

Blessed. The gardener opened the gate,
walked to the middle of her work,
gently moved plants to find the dirt,
and sat, contented.
Now, she could continue to grow,
with help,
from what she had planted.

-By Bots 9/2007

Great MN Get Together!

2007-08-26T12:02:00.000-05:00

Well, yesterday we did it. We finally took our girls to the Minnesota State Fair, the second largest fair (in attendance) in the United States, and the fair with the record for the largest single day attendance. It was – surprisingly enough – the girls' first trip. Actually, it was also HH's and my first trip to the fair together. Neither one of us had been to the fair since college. Talk about jumping in headfirst and just going with the flow...the flow of the first Saturday at the fair. The crowds were unbelievable, but don't trust me, see for yourself:

Yes, the crowd was intense, but that didn't stop us. (Well, it did create some trouble with me spacing out, wandering off, bumping into people. And, the cotton candy didn't help me, but my spacing off happens on a normal day, under less stressful circumstances, so HH and the girls were patient!)

Our first stop at the fair was the booth with the deep fried candy bars. I didn't order one, mainly because it's the highest calorie item at the fair, but HH shared his deep fried Snickers bar and OOD shared her deep fried Oreo cookie. There's definitely a deep fried theme at the MN State Fair!

OYD didn't want the deep fried candy bar, either so we settled on the traditional: cotton candy!

Despite feeling adventurous, there were some foods at the fair that we wouldn't eat, like the deep fried Spam (see my earlier posts about Spam) or the hotdish on a stick (OOD said it looked like fried vomit). That didn't mean that we didn't find great food items. I found a booth with Shawarmas (well, really they were Gyros, but a girl can dream) and that completed my food experience at the fair.

And while we spent the day eating, we also walked. We visited friends who were showing pigs:

HH had the great idea to open the pen so the pigs' faces would show in the picture, but that idea failed when the pigs escaped. Seems it's true: pigs are smarter than humans!

We visited the live birth area until the girls saw a cow afterbirth and abruptly left. We also walked to the Eco building (the kids moaned about this) and checked out the international and education booths. We sat at the MPR booth listening to the DJs spin their music and sat outside the Grandstand listening to Fergie (who showed up an hour late and then only sang for about an hour)!

We laughed ourselves silly on the carousel:

We also walked the Midway (best people watching), played the games, and found the Simpson family (our family favorite):

Finally, we watched the girls go down the giant slide:

Although she went down the slide with a smile on her face and her hair on fire, OYD stood up after her ride, with shaky legs and tears in her eyes, and said:
"If had known how high up I'd be or how scary that ride was, I never would have gone...that was dangerous!" We just laughed and said, "That's why it's fun!" We left fair and arrived at our van just before midnight. And now it's time to detox...

A Very Sad Day

2007-08-15T18:08:00.000-05:00

Droste Schwartzkopf 5/5/91 to 8/15/07

Today we lost a family member, one who has been a friend to each of us. We're sad, but thankful that he was such a big part of our lives. He lives on in each of us.

Major changes...

2007-08-13T23:58:00.000-05:00

Major changes are coming.
HH quit his job and will soon be working for a new company. He quit with class and dignity, more than I could ever do, especially considering how he was treated. Although I'm thrilled about his new job and the opportunities it will bring, I'm still angry about how he was treated at the old company, and thinking of replacing the soap in their company bathrooms with self tanner. Is that legal? I know; it isn't a mature response, but sometimes I still find the urge to say, "You are a big, fat, poopy butt," but in language far more colorful and raunchy. Some might feel they're too sophisticated for these random outbursts, but I'm not above being childish...when the occasion calls for said action. Over the years, I've dreamed of subtle sabotage: dressing in slutty garbs for the company Christmas party; sending out tacky invitations to fictional home-shopping parties where crap too nasty to give away is sold; or sending syrupy e-mails to all employees, e-mails with cheesy graphics and poor writing that take hours to download. Yep, I've considered almost everything: that's how miserably HH's job has impacted my life. I haven't acted on any impulses. Well, I haven't acted on any impulses other than writing about everything. This is just a beginning. Someday, I'll write it all down. I'll write how the boss is a "born-again" Christian who allows sexist/racist jokes to be told at the annual Christmas party, or how HH's boss is a former drug addict with metal plates in his head and professes to be an English major, while never formulating a concise sentence. (Yes, that sentence was meant as an example!) Someday, I'll write it all down, and it will be better than self-tanner in the soap dispenser! Wait and see.

M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I

2007-07-22T15:01:00.000-05:00

It all starts here!
And while many people cross the rocks that mark the end of Lake Itasca and the start of the great Mississippi River, we didn't just walk across; we walked to the middle of the rocks and sat down. I wondered if other visitors were as awestruck as I. Such a great river; such a humble start. What a metaphor for each of us!

Stop and Smell the Daisies: North Shore

2007-07-22T14:43:00.000-05:00

Our recent camping trip took us to the north shore of Minnesota and then to the headwaters of the Mississippi River. The nature surrounding us was so beautiful and breathtaking that it left me without words. No easy feat. So, here is what we saw at the north shore (Duluth up to Grand Marais), and maybe a picture is worth a thousand words:

SPAM: Food of the Camping Gods (or Goddesses)

2007-07-21T01:30:00.000-05:00

Mr. SPAM!

Before I write about my "flushing out" at the headwaters of the Mississippi and other camping adventures, here's a bit about Spam. It somehow invaded our camping trip. I'm not really sure how it happened, but it seems that in a desperate effort to come up with one more camping breakfast, HH suggested Spam. It was a moment of sheer weakness and exasperation, and feebly I said, "Okay. Fine! We'll have SPAM." Besides, I had some vague childhood memories of Spam, so what could be so wrong about it? Dumb question. On the last day of camping, HH eagerly (I'm sure trying to relive his days as a Marine) opened the can of Spam. I tried a little pre-persuasion with the girls, saying stuff like, "You'll like it; it's salty," or "You'll like it; it isn't organic like most of our food," or "You'll like it; it's really bad for you!" And while this peaked their interest for a bit, when the can was finally opened and HH was "cutting" the cube of "God knows what" on the camping cutting board, all three girls were more than skeptical. In unison they puzzled, "What IS that stuff?" This question lead directly to, "Why is it called SPAM?" And then to, "I know the 'AM' part is for 'HAM,' but what's the 'SP' for?" I didn't have the heart to tell them what had just jumped into my mind. Instead I said, "Just eat it and make your dad happy." We all took one bite and then one of the girls said, "I can't eat this; it's NASTY!" We (the girls and I) were all thinking the same exact thought. So, we decided to quickly (and quietly) pass the SPAM to the dog while HH was busy cleaning up the dishes. I prayed that any diarrhea would wait until the dog was safely home and out of our mini-van. Then, it wasn't until we had safely returned home (this includes the dog), that I shared my thoughts about the name, SPAM. I explained, I think the 'AM' stands for HAM, but after seeing that stuff, I'm pretty sure the 'SP' stands for SUET. Yep that's it. Ham and Suet in a can: SPAM!

Zimmy's and the Yellow Brick Road

2007-07-17T01:01:00.000-05:00

Next, I suppose I'll need to plan a road trip to Paisley Park. I don't think my family is ready for that this year. This year I'll need to be content with "Bob Dylan Drive" and Zimmy's, Grand Rapids and the Yellow Brick Road.

Magical Mystery Tour

2007-07-15T23:13:00.001-05:00

Speaking of music, now this...
I just returned from a week of family camping. Soon my pictures will be loaded but until then, here is the best part of the trip: music! Or, maybe it should be musicians.

I was able to con my family into my own, sort of, "Magical Mystery Tour"! Before they knew what hit them, they were visiting the childhood homes of Bobby Zimmerman and Francis Gumm. La, la, la. It was AWESOME! And, we had tunes to go with the experience.

At Zimmerman's home, we listened to "Shelter from the Storm," and at Gumm's home, we listened to her rendition of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic"! Oh, and the girls joined me in singing, "We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of OZ!"

Tune in soon for pictures and tales from the road, along with the names of real businesses, including Kum and Go, the gas station with the slogan, "We go all out!" You really have to see it to believe it.

Let the Music Play

2007-06-28T22:21:00.000-05:00

Awhile back, I was showing one of my brothers my most recent iPod list. As I was scrolling through my tunes for a specific song in the list, the Coldplay/GreenDay duet, he caught a glimpse of another album I have loaded.
"Phantom of the Opera, are you kidding?!?"
He blipped, in an obvious effort to discredit any chance I might have had to stand on the same music-appreciation-platform with him. (Wow, that's one messed up sentence.)

The point of this incident? There is no point. It just serves as a bit of background for a new blog theme: music. Additionally, it shows that when it comes to music, I'm all over the place...even show tunes.

I love music, and I love all types of music. Most of the time, music runs in certain themes for me. For instance, at one point in my life, I only listened to classical music. I believe this theme was my attempt to rub sappy, love song lyrics out of my life. It was one of those breakups where every song was "our" song and I just couldn't escape. Eventually, that phase in my life passed and again I was able listen to songs with lyrics (Thanks in part to The Cure, The Suburbs, and Evan T's concert tickets. Thanks, Evan!). I still listen to classical music, however, an unintended "consequence" of that entire period of my life, maybe. I have no regrets.

Embarrassingly, show tunes have always been part of my music life. In my youth, I loved West Side Story. In high school, it was Annie. In college, Chess. Lately, it's definitely Spring Awakening. The odd side of me actually loves the rebellious teen idealism and swearing on the Spring Awakening soundtrack.(For those not familiar, the play addressed teen sexual awakening and "traditional" adult institutions of education, religion, and parenting.) Even today, I listened to this soundtrack when I walked on the treadmill at my fitness center. As I listened to the "explicit" lyrics, I smiled at the sheer irony of my "Peace" t-shirt while I was listening to the song, "Totally F****d"!

Because of the nature of the Spring Awakening soundtrack, my children haven't heard much of it. However, I have played other soundtracks at home lately: Godspell, Mamma Mia, and Hairspray! The show tunes fascination is a strange part of me, but luckily my family endures. And, they aren't limited to just hearing my show tunes. Thank God for them.

No, music is ALWAYS on at our house. My children have introduced me to current pop and hip hop songs (fun for dancing around the house, but I won't be doing a literary analysis on the lyrics anytime soon). HH is always there with rock (tonight it was Hendrix, but Costello, the Stones, and Aerosmith are also predictables). And while I like Kweller, McLachlan, Dylan, and Jackson Browne, I've been listening to more jazz lately. People passing by my house this week heard Aretha Franklin, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, and Wynton Marsalis...all classics. They also heard Judy Garland. But, I'll save that obsession for another post.

What do you listen to?

Relax

2007-06-28T15:18:00.001-05:00

Confirmed

2007-05-29T20:56:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, OOD was confirmed. It was a beautiful day. I cried; it seemed like just yesterday OOD was baptized. (Gosh, it seems like just yesterday I was confirmed.) Where do the years go? I was pleased that OOD's statement of faith centered on loving, compassion, and peace. She will make the world a better place; she already has!

Famous

2007-05-19T11:27:00.000-05:00

Did I mention that I live with a couple of famous people?

Tired: Rest Required

2007-04-30T22:45:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling tired, which is why I haven't written. Pulled in many different directions, like a rubber band around a whirly gig, I seek solitude. This happens from time to time. People take it personally, but they shouldn't. I just need to be alone. Quiet.
Shhhhh.

Speaking of Vonnegut

2007-04-14T17:12:00.000-05:00

Speaking of Vonnegut and my high school English teacher, I ran into him (no, not Vonnegut)on the plane to the 4Cs. What are the odds of that? He's retired now, and married to a rhetoric professor at the U of MN. Check out his web page and the books he wrote! I sure wish I could afford the Samuel Johnson books. I can't help but think that my boarding school tuition helped pay for those! (I'm just kidding, Slade.)

Figurative Flag: Flying at Half Staff

2007-04-12T06:20:00.000-05:00

Today I will fly my flag, my figurative flag, at half-staff.
Bless you, humanist, bless you.
*The photo is my copy, complete with my own notes from high school, including the scribble on page 195: "Life is not as complicated as we make it."

Lost

2007-04-11T21:07:00.000-05:00

Lost
in thought
in mind
Keys
to understanding
to wisdom
Found
what will be?
4/11/07

You can't just walk in...

2007-03-30T20:36:00.000-05:00

Did you know that you can't just walk into The Daily Show? No, you can't. First, tickets must be ordered online. Tickets to stand in line, that is! Then, with an online ticket in hand, Jon Stewart fans stand in line for (seemingly) hours, while listening to other line squatters discuss the universe: the two college girls in NYC for the first time and the trio of rhetoric professors contemplating whether or not we exist or merely exist in the language we use (existential, pretentious, and drab). When they finally hand out the real tickets, the first 220 people are lucky enough to get the "really real" tickets (blue laminated tag board). The others in line (first about one hundred more, but then weeded to fifty or so), get something else. Polka Dots! Yep, that's right, the polka dotted stand-by ticket. If no VIPs show up, the polka dots are granted a shot at a seat. When it was time to give the tickets to the dots, they chose eight people. Guess what happened to us?

Spring!

2007-03-25T22:12:00.000-05:00

Gosh, I went to NYC for a few days, saw a play called, Spring Awakening (fabulous) while I was there, and returned to warm weather! How ironically wonderful. More on NYC coming up...

We Have Snowblowers!

2007-03-02T19:32:00.000-06:00

"We Have Snowblowers!"
That was a sign I saw today at a local business. I wondered if they had snow blowers for sale or snow blowers for hire. I doubt anyone else analyzed the sign. It would be nice to own either right now. Instead, I have a husband and children: equally good at removing snow.
So much for a dry winter...

Prime.

2007-02-25T19:34:00.000-06:00

Prime.
Yesterday, I turned prime: forty one.
Most people think that a prime birthday is no big deal, but for me it was bigger than 4 times a decade. I didn't feel like celebrating that one. I didn't have a problem turning forty, but it was a tiring birthday. I spent the day laughing at age jokes, and at the end of the day, I was too tired to do anything. I think we went out for dinner, but I don't really remember. I was just glad when the day was over.
Forty one was different.
Family and friends braved a heavy (12+inches) snowfall to join me downtown for a night of laughter, food, and jazz at the Dakota Jazz Club. It was a wonderful birthday celebration complete with a personalized, "Happy Birthday" song to me by the feature artist, Regina Williams. Fabulous.
As we were leaving the jazz club, I had a strong flashback. Twenty years ago, on the night of my twenty first birthday, I drove downtown Minneapolis in a blinding snowstorm to celebrate my birthday. I smiled and thought: life is good!

We need to reevaluate our "to-do" lists: An open letter to Generation X!

2007-02-19T10:34:00.000-06:00

We need to reevaluate our "to-do" lists in this country.
I teach a class where we examine the pop culture we live in. We look at values and where we learned our "American" values. My generation has "bought" (my use here is intentional) into a value system that has spending at it's core. It's really not our fault, however. For the most part, we grew up with parents who could provide for us. Maybe they bought us what they didn't have as a child? Maybe they made sure we had the best education, the best opportunities? Most importantly, since childhood, we have been sold our values by a corporate machine more powerful than any good parent or Sunday School. Our values, whether we're willing to admit it or not, are consumer values. This consumer culture tells us we must be young, wealthy, healthy, happy, clean, etc. If we're not, we need to purchase the items to make us young, wealthy, healthy, happy, clean, etc. Then, if we don't purchase, we're made to feel guilty. The economy will crumble and it will be our fault (Remember Bush's request to spend and keep the status quo after 9/11?). And, what will our neighbors think? What about our friends, or our children's friends? What will they think of us? No; we need to purchase to become the best citizens, the best parents. And, we need to be perfect parents with perfect homes because we know so much about the "bad" ones, and we don't want that. So, if we're not perfect parents, we'd better buy Martha Stewart's magazine, furniture from The Pottery Barn, and visits to Gymboree for our children. We must also pay for the best preschools and summer programs because we want our children to succeed. We don't want them to fail. Failure is just about a death sentence in our culture. And, we must be clean. If we don't have spotless floors and impeccably decorated homes, it's failure, isn't it?

I know what I write is a little hard hitting, but I write this to myself as well. My generation (including me) needs to reevaluate our to-do lists. Like Morrie Schwartz (Tuesdays with Morrie), we need to ask, "What's wrong with being number two?" We need to stop "buying" into a culture that doesn't make us happy. We need to learn to live with a little dirt on our floors and get our hands dirty instead. We need to get involved with what really matters. That will do more for our children than any clean house.

Today's Quote

2007-02-03T16:32:00.000-06:00

Today I added the "Quote of the Day" feature to my Google main page. I was pleasantly surprised to see one of today's quotes was from a philosopher I find quite interesting, Jacques Derrida.

Here is the quote:
To pretend, I actually do the thing: I have therefore only pretended to pretend. -Jacques Derrida

The "Quote of the Day" is going to be a good feature for me; I can tell already.

Beauty

2007-02-01T19:59:00.000-06:00

With the wind chill hovering around -28, it's easy to feel depressed. Breathing outside means nostril hairs freeze. Eyes can't be open without tearing and dripping in the wind. Skin burns like acid eating to the bone. The entire nervous system seizes in a futile effort to protect the body from the cold; even the heart toys with stopping. And, yet there is beauty.

With eyes squinted, I caught a glimpse of light in the eastern sky, just before sundown. The moon, almost as if defying the cold, rose. It's glow was warm and powerful. It's beauty, more breathtaking than the temperature. It's cold, but tonight there is beauty.

(The photo of the moon was taken tonight as I saw it.)

Making changes!

2007-02-01T18:50:00.000-06:00

If you're reading this entry, you'll notice that changes are being made to my blog. Damn Google/eBlogger and their new beta-business. I swear it's messing up my blogmosphere. I have 4 blogs, but unless you've done some serious investigative work, you wouldn't know that. (If you are aware of my blogs, I'll assume you're stalking me; please let me know so I can hire some sort of protection.)

Back to the rant:
Somehow/somewhere in the "transfer-to-the-new-better-blog" process, my blogs got all screwed up. This isn't good for me!

Three of my blogs are work related; they're blogs for my students. This blog is my private (semi-private) blog; my students don't read it, and I like it that way. They think I'm weird enough; I don't want them reading about my dog's anal issues and other topics I graphically discuss here. So, for that reason alone, I've kept my blogs separated. In fact, I even went so far as to use the nickname Bots (short for Skitty Bots, a name my dad gave me as a child and a name my brothers still call me) for this blog. If you look at my profile, you'll see that Bots no longer exists.

Yes finally, thanks to the new/better Blogger, I've been outed. I can't seem to separate my profiles and for some reason, my newest blog (Non Stop Pop), has attached itself to this blog and now my Non Stop Pop profile is here. Luckily, the Non Stop Pop blog is still in the construction phase, and I haven't given it to my students...yet. Until I figure all of this out – with the help of a blood pumping human or not – feel free to snoop around and invade my privacy. If you know about this site, chances are I gave you the address because I welcomed the intrusion.

I'm bored.

2007-01-30T19:17:00.000-06:00

I'm bored.
It's become the catch-all phrase of the century, I believe.
In my case it isn't just a phrase, it's true.
Now, most people think of boredom as not having enough to do. Actually, it's just the opposite for me. There's so much to do, I can't do anything. (Those in scientific circles might call this ADD or some other acronym standing for a terrible condition.) I think it's just the curse of creativity: dry spells brought on by too much energy. Boredom spells. Studies have shown that when students say they're bored, they're really just lacking comprehension. That isn't me, either. I'm a Pisces; we "get" the universe, we just choose not to live in it. Sometimes, however, we're bored by it. This condition will pass, it always does. I'll conquer my list of a thousand tasks to accomplish; I'll rest; and then when I have nothing to do, I'll stop being bored.

Contemplating the Lava Lamp

2007-01-18T22:42:00.000-06:00

The Lava Lamp. Who knew it could be so captivating?
OMD received a long-awaited (and begged for) Lava Lamp for Christmas. It was a bit slow to heat up and start "grooving;" maybe somewhat of a disappointment, too, but she loved it. It was orange and red and purple, and OMD watched it every night before she fell asleep, when we promptly unplugged it.

After a week or so of ownership, the Lava Lamp began to captivate our attention. While I doubt he'd admit it, HH must have been extremely enamored with the lamp. Is there any other explanation for his sudden urge to pick up the lamp, shake it, and drop it? We'll never know.

OMD was surprised and worried when she saw the shaking and the accidental dropping. Thank God the glass didn't break. When the lava cooled, the lamp was in rough shape: flaky wax, tainted water, and strange wires we had no idea were previously sharing quarters with the lava. HH assured OMD that he would replace the lamp. I looked at HH and thought, "What were you thinking?"

The next day, HH set out to locate another Lava Lamp. He wasn't successful, so he called me at work to say that he was hunting unsuccessfully. He said he would try to fix it. I hung up the phone. Try to FIX it? When I got home, the Lava Lamp was up and running. HH had researched the lamp and educated himself on fixing it. Truly amazing! All was well, and as a bonus, we now have a Lava Lamp expert in our midst.

Then, the next day at work, a co-worker brought another Lava Lamp to me. She had overheard my conversation with HH, and her daughter had "outgrown" the lamp. I brought home the lamp and plugged it in. It was different than OMD's. It was beautiful, too! Purple! Bubbly!

We all stared in wonder at the lamp. "Hey, the lava just floated in the shape of an exclamation point," I cheered. "It's more alive than my lamp," OMD added. "Wow, it's really active," HH added. I worried that HH would pick this one up, too.

We were all staring in wonder at the lamp, and then this thought came to me: the bunching, purple lava looked a little bit like hemorrhoids. I kept that thought to myself.

The lamp will provide hours of entertainment, I'm sure. It will be like watching clouds, only more colorful!

THE season

2007-01-15T22:50:00.000-06:00

Hey, guess what?
It's artichoke season!

The Pox

2007-01-14T22:00:00.000-06:00

Since last Thursday, OMD has complained of an itchy bump on her belly. Knowing that she had the Chicken Pox vaccine, I told her that it was probably just dry skin. She should put lotion on her belly. Today, after Sunday School and on our way into church, I noticed a red pustule on her forehead. I pointed to it, and asked her if she had a pimple. She said, "MOM, that's one of the itchy bumps, like the oneS on my belly I told you about!"

Oh, my God!

I pulled her into the women's bathroom and had her lift her shirt. Sure enough, her belly was covered in spots. Chicken Pox!

Evidently, there is a 10% chance that someone will get Chicken Pox even if they've had the vaccine. Super.

Guess we'll be staying home this week...

Clarksville, Tennessee

2007-01-08T21:38:00.000-06:00

Here is an interesting place: Clarksville, Tennessee.
Over the holidays, we drove down to visit HH's family in northern Georgia. (No, HH isn't from the south; he's from Michigan, but his family moved to Georgia not long after we got married. Go figure.)

Anyway...
On our drive back from Georgia, we stopped in a little town (or so I thought) called Clarksville, TN. When we pulled off the highway, I noticed a really strange block of "business" establishments. They included a McDonald's, a striped fireworks-sold-here-tent, and – here's the kicker – a fenced in lot with a single tombstone in it. Weird. Really weird.

At first I thought the tombstone was for someone who either died after eating at McDonald's, or died because of a firecracker accident that was somehow connected to the striped fireworks-sold-here-tent.

I got on the phone a dialed a friend – a reliable, Internet searching savvy friend – and within moments I found out that Clarksville had a rich history. Not only was it home to Jimi Hendrix and Charles Schultz (a MN boy and cartoonist of goofy kids and clever pets), but it was also the inspiration for a Monkey's song with the catchy stanza, "Take the last train to Clarksville..."

Now that is a town!

And the tombstone? Turns out the contemporary metal fence and concrete marker are there to protect an old (1800s) cemetery. So, as quirky as it looked, it turned out that Clarksville is a town that holds a curious history and also protects it.

New Look in 2007

2007-01-06T13:13:00.000-06:00

Well, my babies have new "looks" for 2007. Actually the oldest baby, OOD, acquired her new eyes 4 years ago, however, her sisters (OMD and OYD) just received their new eyes at the beginning of the new year. The future looks bright for all!

Working on the Christmas Card

2006-12-13T07:14:00.001-06:00

I've been working on the family Christmas card. It isn't going so well. I thought I had come up with a "creative" way to include the whole family in this year's card. I didn't think it was fair to have a picture with just the girls; people might want to see their parents, too, so I arranged for a whole family photo. Dumb idea! We, the parents, don't photograph well. Despite it being "the most wonderful time of the year," it really isn't for us. We're pale and heavy, and we look SO tired. I suppose that's because we're working to make it, "the most wonderful time of the year," for our children. We'll rest, and take another picture this week. If the result is the same, I'll just send a picture of the girls.

It's that time again...

2006-12-07T22:19:00.000-06:00

Woke up at 4:30 this morning. No reason; just awake. The house felt cold, so I looked outside at the thermometer: -15º! And, that was the temperature without the local news reporting the wind chill. No doubt it was much colder.
Welcome to winter!
Just two weeks ago, we were in Minneapolis greeting the beginning of the Christmas season with Santa at the Holidazzle Parade (which incidently used to be fun, but is now just one gargantuan display of corporate ads, making the whole parade quite gauche)! Of course it was about 60º that night, and Santa was probably sweating in his heavy, fluffy, red, jumpsuit. It's impossible to win in Minnesota when your nemesis is the weather.

Last Blog Entry for the Next Few Months: A Rant!

2006-10-11T22:02:00.000-05:00

This is my last blog entry for the next few months. Other writing has been calling me – screamimg at me – and I just need to complete it! But before I go, a rant. A spooky, Halloween rant. Hold on to your broom, secure your wizarding web wardrobe, and get this:

Halloween has been officially rubbed out of my daughters' school experiences. Two years ago the schools banned the wearing of scary or "evil" costumes. Last year, the schools removed the name, "Halloween," and replaced it with the more piously acceptable, "Fall Festival," and the children were banned from wearing costumes! This year the date for Fall Festival has been moved away from the 31st – lest someone complain the day is evil – to the 27th of October.

Heeeellllllooooo? Who is driving this madness? Is it the Religous Right? Really? Have any of these people read the news lately? Evil isn't lurking under a witch's hat, a wizard's cloak, or a princess' crown! Evil lurks under the collar of a priest or minister; under the robes of a judge or the white coat of a doctor; under the tweed cardigan of a trusted teacher, or beneath the suit jacket of a drunk politician! Evil resides wherever it is allowed in, people. Beware!

Come to think of it, instead of banning Halloween, maybe we should ban career day!

The Blind Date: A Guy in His Sister's Guess Jeans

2006-09-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

It was the winter of 1987 and I had broken up with my boyfriend the previous fall. I didn't have any desire to date someone new, but my friends were getting sick of seeing and listening to me mope around. One friend came up with a brilliant idea: I should go on a date with her and her boyfriend. If that wasn't enough, they also found a date for me.

Now, although it may sound like it, I really wasn't a charity case and I don't think I needed to be "set-up," but to make my friend happy, I agreed to the double date, even if my date was someone I had never met. How bad could it be, right?

Let me just say, "Thank God, I drove my own car."

We met at some Irish bar in St. Paul (O'Gara's?) and I was the last of the four to show up. Everyone was sitting down when I arrived and my initial assessment of my date was quite favorable. He was actually extremely nice looking. I can still remember his wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. He had fine features and was...wearing mascara?! Really, he was wearing mascara. He never made an apology for the mascara, but clarified why he was wearing it. He was a drummer in a band. Drummers, evidently, wore mascara (although I knew another drummer –there's a dysfuntional pattern here – and he didn't wear mascara). Anyway, the mascara was something I could deal with, or so I thought. Or so I thought, until he stood up! Standing, he wasn't much taller than I and he was T-H-I-N. He was thinner than I was, and back in the 80s, I was about a size 6, plus or minus my big hair and shoulder pads.

I don't remember exactly how it happened, but somehow I made a sly – sarcastic – remark about how he looked better in his ankle zipping Guess jeans than I looked in mine. My quip opened the door to personal sharing/cleansing on his part. His jeans, he confessed, were really his sister's.
HUH?
I wanted to ask if they shared makeup and a wardrobe, but instead I asked everyone if it was time to go dancing. I figured that we needed – I needed – some sort of distraction.

Heading out the door to the parking lot, I found myself dreaming of a quiet, solitary ride to Minneapolis. No such luck. He was right on my heels and before I knew it I heard him say, "I'll ride with you, if that's okay." Now, why wouldn't it be?

I opened the doors and he hopped in the passenger seat. He then began to talk, and talk, and talk. I have no idea what he said; I just remember him talking. That is, of course, until he asked me to find a convenience store. A convenience store? Now? This grabbed my attention and I suddenly thought that maybe this odd date, in mascara and his sister's jeans, might be okay. Surely he needed to stop at a convenience store for cigarettes. He was probably refraining from smoking just like I was, out of politeness. I pulled off the highway and into a 7/11. He went inside and I started feeling a little guilty for thinking he was so weird. Maybe the mascara and his sister's jeans weren't so strange. Maybe, beneath the quirky, he was cool.
He came back to the car with a little brown bag and I waited for him to ask if it would be okay to smoke in my car, something I was dying to do but I didn't want to be the first to light up. Instead, he opened the bag and pulled out...

Lik-M-Aid!
Lik-M-Aid: the little candy pouches of sweetened powder and a candy stick.

He ripped off the top of the wrapper, licked the candy stick, stuck it in the powder before handing it to me. "Do you want some?" He said with giddy nervousness.
I should have left him inside, I thought. I told him I didn't want his candy, but I hoped he didn't mind that I smoked. He didn't mind. But, his opinion – at that point – didn't matter much because it wasn't meant to be a choice, anyway.

We arrived at the dance place in Minneapolis. To this day, the name of the place escapes me. It was a dark, sticky sort of place with red pleather booths and a tiny dance floor. (Years later, I believe this same place was the setting for a major incident involving women, a fight, and broken beer bottles.) We joined my friend and her boyfriend in a booth. When the two guys went up to the bar, my friend asked me how it was going. Had she not seen the mascara? To be nice, I told her I would make it through the evening, but that would be it. There would be no second date, but I could endure one night. Besides, I guessed that if he was a drummer, he'd have a certain sense of rhythm and could probably dance. That would carry me through the night.

Maybe his jeans were too tight, or maybe he was a drummer without rhythm, but I was wrong to think that dancing would be the cure-all for the date. When the first rockin' song came on, my blind date made some excuse that got him out of dancing. The following song, however, was a slow song and he was eager to move (or make the moves). I declined, making up my own excuse. Finally, when a song that wasn't too rockin' and wasn't too seductive began to play, we both decided we could dance. Well, he decided we could dance; I decided that he definitely couldn't dance. In fact, there isn't a verb to describe what he was doing on the dance floor. I felt sorry for him, but I had to end the "movement" as soon as possible. I said I didn't feel like dancing and requested that we return to the booth. When we got back there, my blind date insisted on sitting next to me, even if we were the only two people in the booth.

We sat there in silence. And, he stared at me. After a few minutes, I turned to him and asked what he was staring at. He said, "I was wondering if I could kiss the beauty mark on your cheek?"

It was the last straw. I excused myself to go the bathroom, found my friend on the dance floor, told her I was leaving, and headed to my car without returning to the booth. It wasn't the nicest way to end a date, but it was the only way. The following day (and days after that), my blind date called me. I gave him just about every excuse there was to give and finally I just had to say, "Sorry, I will never date you, again."

Years later, I was with my husband in the Minneapolis airport terminal. We were waiting for our luggage when my husband commented that a man and a woman were staring at me. I looked over and there they were: my blind date from the 80s and his sister.

*For the record: I no longer smoke and I no longer have the beauty mark. The blind date had nothing to do with either of these modifications!

Jobs I've had

2006-09-24T09:18:00.000-05:00

We watched Shopgirl last night. As Danes was standing at that glove counter, I couldn't help but think about crappy jobs I've had. Here are some of them:

Children's World Day Care: My boyfriend would pick me up from work and muse, "You just smell like URINE." It was true. I changed 24 toddler (the big babies) diapers in a row and had to deal with a fat, little, mean boy who bit other kids.

Hostess, GuadalaHarry's restaurant: Caught a couple "doing it" in the women's bathroom on my first night of work. Watched the place fill with smoke because some drunk guy put a fake log on the gas fireplace. Worked at the coat check and made about a $1 for the whole night. The IRS asked me to claim the tip.

Dial America Marketing: Sold Weekly Reader Books. Worked making phone sales in a big room somewhere in downtown Minneapolis. Spent most of my time watching the other phoners. Will never forget the "Apollonina" wanna be. She'd come to work slathered in black lace, chains, and hair so big she'd pull pencils out of it. Oh, and she'd dial the phone with that same pencil's eraser so she wouldn't chip her acrylic nails. She was fascinating to watch, even for the 1980s, when big was better.

Specialty Bathing Suit Resort Shop: Selling bathing suits to women of ungodly wealth in the middle of October. No one in Minnesota buys a bathing suit in the middle of October unless they're going to be wearing it somewhere else. That's what made this job so nightmarish. I would have to fit bathing suits on women who needed to hear they looked great, even though they didn't, and then I'd have to listen to their travel plans. While they were telling me their stories, I'd stand there picturing them sunning by the pool in the $200 suits, as their husbands romped in the hotel room upstairs with girls 20 years younger. Call my cynical, but to this day, I hate shopping for a bathing suit.

Additional jobs worth mentioning:
Selling perfume door to door (I only did this for about 2 hours) and bartending at a hotel (my shift started at 6 am).

Magnuson the Recycling Poodle

2006-09-23T09:57:00.000-05:00

I've decided that I will train my Standard Poodle, Magnuson, how to recycle. If dogs can fetch, why can't they learn to recycle, right?

So, this morning I started training. I grabbed an empty cardboard cereal box, put it in her jaws and said, "recycle," and then walked her over to our plastic recycling bin. I told her to drop it and then I gave her a treat. While I was doing this, HH was in the kitchen. He just looked at me. "I'm teaching the dog to recycle; everyone should have an eco-friendly pet," I said.

HH looked right at me and quipped, "You can't get your children to recycle and you think this will work with the dog?"

Smart ass. I picked up an empty pop can and crushed it. I held it out to Magnuson and said, "recycle." She gave me the you've-got-to-be-kidding look, and I realized that it will be awhile until we can take our new trick to David Letterman.

Songs (part 2)

2006-09-20T21:13:00.000-05:00

I'm still stuck in the songs of the 70s. I can't get out of the 70s without paying homage to The Carpenters and Barry Manilow. My entire life in the 70s could be completely described in Carpenter songs. I wanted to "bless the beasts and the children," and I was always, "on top of the world looking down on creation." With so many songs to mention, it might be best to just provide this link: http://www.vex.net/~paulmac/carpenter/songs.html
Of course, there were/still are two favorite Carpenter songs. One has these lyrics: "But now I'm so much better and if my words don't come together, listen to the melody cause my love is in there hi-ding." and the other has these:"What lies in the future is a mystery to us all/ No one can predict the wheel of fortune as it falls / There may come a time when I will see that I was wrong/ But for now this is my song."
While these songs still resonate, the truth is that I really loved ALL of the Carpenters' songs. From Karen's love ballad's to Richard's solo about playing the piano, I knew them all. But, The Carptenters weren't alone. Barry Manilow was another 70s singer who captured my heart and attention. http://www.barrynet.com/
"I write the songs that make the whole world sing..." and "looks like we made it/ or so I thought so till today." The songs were powerful to me when I was in grade school and jr. high. Back then, I would put the album on the record player and lay on our green, velvet sofa. The world would go away and I would be alone with my musicians and their songs. I can still sing their songs today, and amazingly, they're still as powerful. I chuckle to think that today one of my prized possessions is a tape of The Greatest Hits of The Carpenters, made from an old 33. It was my dad's tape; I acquired it after he died. If I turn it up loud enough, I can still hear the crackle of dust beneath the phonograph's needle. The last time I played the tape, I was so swept up in the memories that it brought back to me, I cried without realizing what I was doing. I turned up the music to a deafening blast. The experience was primal. It proved that music is part of my spirit. It always has been and will always be.

Next music blog: jr high dance party tunes!

Songs (part 1)

2006-09-16T22:46:00.000-05:00

I watched an ad on TV tonight for a 70s music collection. Wow, it was like someone grabbed me by the ankles and threw me back into my childhood. So, instead of freaking out my entire family by connecting old songs to memories, I'm going to write them here. I'll start with the 70s. You'll get the freaky me and my songs.

One of my earliest song memories is with Charlie Pride's, "Chrystal Chandelier." I can remember my parents singing this song, as a joke, and the laughter that filled the air when they sang.

When I was in third grade, I fell in love with Stevie Wonder's, "You Are the Sunshine of My Life." I sang that song as loud as possible; never worrying if I was on key or not. I can still place myself on top of the Half Moon Bay sand dune singing the lyrics with my arms stretched toward the sun. The sun rays beat down on my shoulders while I twirled and kicked the warm sand through my toes. "And I know this must be he-aven..." I jumped and slid down the slipface towards the gulf. "How could so much love be in-side of you..." Splash. I'd hit the water.
I loved Stevie Wonder in third grade.

In fourth grade – thanks to my friend, Jinx – I discovered The Eagles. Her older brother had left behind an Eagles album when he went off to boarding school. One day, as we rummaged through his room with all of it's forbidden, teenage artifacts, we happened upon the album. Immediately, we opened the lid to her brother's turn-table and secured the vinyl disc – carefully – under the arm of the turn-table. There would be hell to pay if we broke the precious needle. Crackle, crackle. The music filled the room. "Raven hair and ruby lips; sparks fly from her finger tips..." The music was so mysterious, we just had to bounce. Flying through the air and across the room – one twin bed to the next – we sang every song at least four times. The music was perfect for singing and for jumping on the beds. And then, we'd listen to "Peaceful Easy Feeling," and we'd stop bouncing. We'd lay there, each on our own disheveled twin bed. "I like the way sparking earrings lay, against your skin so brown / And I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight, with a billion stars all around..." I'd dream that I was the one in sparking earrings and The Eagles were singing to me. "Cause I've got a peaceful easy feeling and I know you won't let me down..."
That song influenced all of my first crushes and my first loves. To this day, it still makes my knees buckle. I guess I still like the idea of sleeping in the desert with stars all around. Peaceful.

Foul Mood Questions

2006-09-07T22:06:00.000-05:00

Are all men selfish?
If they are, or even if they are not, why do women even care?

read today: The Senior Newspaper

2006-09-02T19:23:00.000-05:00

Today I picked up a copy of our area's newspaper for seniors. They have a column named, "Casket Chatter." Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that a disturbing column name for a senior newspaper?

Along with article, there are recipes in the Senior newspaper. My favorite recipes are: The Liver Sausage Ball (made with a pound of Braunschweiger, cream cheese and some spices), Hydrox Dessert (made with Cool Whip, cookies - Hydrox, although the recipe doesn't specify – and marshMELLOWs, something I've never seen, but KNOW I need); and finally, Pork and Bean Bread (made with raisins, cinnamon, sugar, and of course, a can of Pork and Beans). Mmm. I think I'll make these recipes tomorrow. Gosh, it's just hell to grow old!

Rabbits and Maggots and Anus, OH MY!

2006-08-29T22:01:00.000-05:00

The other night we went to a party given by a friend of mine. Her daughter was heading back to college and she wanted to have a "send off" party. We walked in, got our food, and then went to find a place to sit down. My husband went outside; the girls and I went to the living room.
As the girls and I were sitting in the living room, a nice woman sat down with us. She lives in Duluth and she knows my friend through their daughters. We started talking. She was quite pleasant, kind of shy and sweet, and I found out that she had been a dance instructor, had lived all over the US, and was interesting to talk to. We basically made small talk, but then the conversation changed.

The Duluth woman asked, "Do you have any pets?" I said I have two poodles and asked if she had any pets. She said, "Well, we had a rabbit but it died, and we're still sad about it." I said that was sad and asked what happened. (Big mistake, remember, I had just gotten my plate of food and was eating.) She started the story...
"Well, I probably shouldn't have gotten the rabbit because, well, rabbits need to be caged because they poop constantly. And, I hate animals in cages. So, I tried to let it out as often as possible. I even built a cage that the top would come off, so I could move the rabbit around. One day, one beautiful, sunny day, I took the rabbit in the top part of the cage and I set it outside in the grass. I thought it could use the fresh air and I thought it would like to sit in the grass. I didn't think about the flies. A few days later, I noticed worms at the bottom of the cage. I thought the rabbit had worms, so I took it to the vet. The vet looked at me and said that the rabbit had maggots. Evidently, when I put it outside in the grass, the flies laid eggs in it's anus. I guess that's common because the anus on a rabbit is moist and flies like it. The maggots got up inside the rabbit and began eating. They even ate all the way to the testicles. Eventually, the maggots had eaten so much of the rabbit that we had to put it to sleep. The vet wouldn't operate because rabbits are so delicate." When she was done with the story, I was dumbstruck. I had nothing to say and I wasn't going to say what I was thinking, "That's the nastiest thing I've ever heard!" I just wanted to laugh, but I could tell that this woman was completely serious. She was devastated by the maggots that ate their way into her rabbit's anus!

I took a deep breath and gained composure. I looked to my left and the girls had deserted me. Their plates were still there, full of food, but they had gone outside to be with Daddy. I looked back at the woman and said, "I think I'll stick to my dogs. It sounds like rabbits are a lot of work." She said, "They are. And, they're always wild; they never really bond with you."
I didn't ask any more questions...

The Baby Boy

2006-08-12T13:20:00.000-05:00

It was about 3:20 am, from what I could tell by squinting at the clock. Out of a sound sleep, I was woken to Droste, my 15 year old Toy Poodle, standing on my pillow – staring at me – and softly whining, almost moaning. "What is it, Drost?" I whispered. "Is something wrong?"

The truth is, Droste is dying. Or at least we all believe he is dying. Over the past few months, we've watched him shrivel to about six pounds, and that would be a heavy estimate. At his prime, he was a very fit and lively ten pounds. He has definitely lost weight recently, looking more like the back-arching, skinny, Santa's Little Helper from the Simpson's than a Toy Poodle. Now nearly deaf, arthritic, toothless, seizure plagued, and completely blind, Droste's time on earth is limited; we all know he won't live long. We've had him for over fifteen years. He has seen the best of our family and the worst. He was there when HH returned from the Gulf War and weathered the Post Traumatic Stress that followed. He sat on my lap and guided me through the grief of 4 miscarriages. He was there, at the front door, when we came home from the hospital with each new, beautiful baby daughter. He patiently greeted three other dogs that would all share his space. He licked my tears when my dad died, and when my mother couldn't bear the pain of living alone after Dad's death, Droste moved in with her. He's giving. He has shared his love with everyone. But, if I'm honest, I'll admit that we've paid for that love, too.

Droste came to us in 1991, eight months after we got married and a month after HH returned from the desert. My mom's dog, an Apricot Toy Poodle named Molly, had a litter of three puppies. One of the puppies died during childbirth and that left Droste and his sister, Ophelia. Ophelia, an Apricot female, was going to be my dog. HH came to our marriage with a black Lab, Pepper, and because I was a little jealous of that relationship, I wanted my own dog. (Call it our first marriage power struggle.) Specifically wanting a Poodle was a direct result of my childhood. I grew up with a female Minature Poodle named Francie, or Frankie as we called her, and I wanted another Poodle. At the time, I didn't really think about why I wanted a Poodle, but I now know that it's because of their eyes. There is a quality to Poodle's eyes; they're so soulful and "connected," and that quality has always captivated me. Also, Poodles appear to need humans, and I gravitate to being needed. As a bonus, Poodles don't shed, another reason to want one. Of course, they have anal sacs, an enormous mark against them, but that will come later in the story. For this part of the story, the focus will only be on why I wanted my Droste. Although, originally, I didn't want Droste at all because he was a male. I wanted the little female puppy. She was going to be my dog, and I named her Ophelia.

Now, anyone remotely familiar with Shakespeare will realize that Ophelia might not have been a very good name for the little female puppy. Just like Hamlet's Ophelia, the puppy was probably doomed from the beginning. Afterall, she had been named after a character that goes mad and commits suicide. Interestingly enough, at the time I didn't even think of this obviously poor choice in a name. I thought of the character's complexity, the teenage girl caught between family loyalty and first love; caught between recklessness and responsibility. The name Ophelia, to me, had more to do with triumphant choice than the obvious tragedy of madness and suicide. It was stupid that I missed the obvious. When Ophelia was only weeks old, eyes barely opened, I received a phone call from my mom.
"I'm calling to tell you that Ophelia isn't doing very well. We took her to the vet today because she was just laying around, listless. The vet thinks she's starving; thinks that the little male puppy is pushing her out of the way when she tries to nurse. We're going to try to supplement her feedings with an eye dropper to see if we can get milk to her that way, but you should know, it doesn't look good."
"Oh, that's too bad. Call me and let me know how she does." I hung up the phone. While my mother was obviously attached to the little puppy – I could hear it in her voice – I didn't share the same connection. The dog wasn't mine yet, so there was no need to attach. Then came the second phone call. My dad.
"I have really bad news, honey, Ophelia died. We just couldn't save (cracking in his voice) her. I'm so, SO, sorry."
I held my breath. I was sad, too, but not because the puppy had died. It wasn't very often that I saw my dad cry and it was even less often thatI heard him cry. Hearing his cracked and shaky voice, I couldn't help but feel pain. He was very touched by the death of this little Poodle.
Just as I was about to tell my dad it was okay, we weren't really that attached to Ophelia, he said, "Now, I think you should take the little male puppy."
Huh? What? No. I didn't want the male puppy. Male puppies were...well, they were...MALE.
Yet, before I could stop myself, I said, "Oh, Dad, we'd be happy to take the little male puppy!" There it was. I had said it. I hung up the phone and thought two things: I now owned a little male puppy and...it was going to piss all over my house!

We named the little puppy Droste because he was a Chocolate Poodle and Droste chocolates are my favorite chocolates. So, for many years we called him Droste, but in the past five years he has mostly been known as The Baby Boy. And, he is my baby boy, not just because he is my dog, but because I've saved him from death, many, many times.

The first night we brought Droste home, we anticipated a night of whining, crying, and missing his mother. At bedtime, we put him in his new dog bed and placed some new toys around him: a squeeky shoe, a rubber burger, and a tennis ball. We turned off the lights and waited. In the pitch black of the room, it was quiet. We waited for a few minutes, anticipating his cries, and then this: squeak. squeak. squeak. Squeak, Squeak, Squeak, Squeak! Droste didn't cry; he had found the squeaky shoe. This went on for some time, and I just buried my head under the pillows. Surely, he'd stop soon. I woke up awhile later to a quiet room and a sleeping puppy. All was well. In the morning, I commented to HH that Droste had finally settled down and had stopped chewing the shoe. HH looked at me in disbelief and said, "Don't you remember me cutting out the squeeker in the middle of the night? I got up and cut the shoe apart!" And so started the beginning of the past fifteen years with The Baby Boy.

For 15 years, we have really grown to love Droste; but like I said earlier, we have paid for that love. He has been a less-than-stellar dog, to say the least. Oh, and he has bad habits. His first bad habit is licking. He likes to lick: himself. I can still feel the anxiety of having to tell his Vet – his good looking Vet– about this embarrassing habit. Early on, Droste was suffering from tooth loss and gum disease, and would need some cleaning and tooth extraction. He was a young dog at the time and the Vet puzzled over this dental problem. I felt the need to fess up and reveal Droste's "habit" to give the Vet at least one possible explanation for the rotting teeth. As the Vet stood there questioning the early tooth decay, I said, "Well, it might be due to the fact that he licks (gulp) himself!" Augh, I had just blurted it out; there was no way to explain this habit in any civilized way. I felt my face blush and my stomach flip. The Vet looked at me. Amused. With a smile on his face he said, "Yes, that can be a difficult habit to break!" I could only imagine.

So, Droste had his teeth cleaned. But, it didn't end there. Years later he needed another cleaning and more extractions. The second time it cost us over $850, and Droste was left with only three teeth in his mouth! Now, those teeth are also going and I'm hoping he'll just swallow them, as he licks.

If Droste's one bad habit is licking, his other bad habit is destroying. He has been quite destructive, but also selective with his destruction. He only destroys things that belong to people who have done him wrong. He is revengeful. Here are a few examples:
When Droste was less than a year old, I had a big fight with HH. We were yelling at each other as newly married couples sometimes do and for whatever reason, HH turned and yelled at Droste. Later that day, I walked into our room and there, directly in the center of HH's pillow was a single, brown, turd. If that wasn't enough, Droste had chewed the backs off of HH's loafers and had eaten his belt, but never touched anything of mine. HH finally had to say, "uncle" and make peace with both me and The Baby Boy. Once he did this, Droste left his stuff alone.

Well, Droste and HH became friends, or at least they learned how to co-exist. I like to think they both decided to give up the entire struggle for Alpha male status, succumbing to the fact that such a struggle would be a futile fight in a household where they were the only males. In their environment, women held the power, for no other reason than they their sheer numbers. We outnumbered them 2+ to one.

But, just because Droste and HH mended their relationship, didn't mean that Droste didn't have enemies or cause destruction. He just displaced his anger. Once HH was a friend, Droste turned on HH's family. Specifically, her turned on HH's parents and their beautiful home. My in-laws didn't have dogs or animals, and aside from a stuffed pheasant that was part of a larger nature scene and my father-in-law's "artistic attempt" to decorate under the basement stairs, they really despised anything animal. A Toy Poodle wasn't exempt. Now, they never came right out and said they hated the dog, but they hinted and talked to him like they didn't like him. Well, my father-in-law didn't talk to him; he flat out ignored him. He just acted like the dog wasn't there at all. Anyone who knows anything about Poodles, knows they don't like to be ignored. So when my father-in-law ignored him, Droste, in response, peed on all four corners of his pool table. My mother-in-law didn't ignore Droste, she talked to him. It wasn't always the most pleasant conversation. She would talk to him, but she said things like, "So, ya little mongrel, do you want to go outside and see if the fox in our woods will carry you away?"Droste just cocked his head, listened to her banter, and then waltzed right into the living room and peed a long, yellow stream on the corner or her brand new, bleach white sofa. He was difficult to love at times like these, but in a way, I was proud of him. He was bold and he didn't take crap from anyone. On one trip to the in-laws', my mother-in-law complained, "Oh, you brought the dog?!" Hearing this, Droste walked over to her, lifted his leg and just about peed on her calf before I quickly grabbed him. It was as if he was responding to her question by saying, "Yea, I'm here!" He always had an answer for everything, especially if he sensed he wasn't liked.

He didn't like to be alone, either, especially when we were travelling. If he did damage at my in-laws when we were there, he would DESTROY if we left him alone. To prevent damage, we bought a small kennel and tried to leave him in it when we left the house. He flipped out. He didn't like the kennel and he –especially– didn't like the idea of being stuck in it when we left the house. The first time we put him in the kennel, we returned to what looked like a scene from a gruesome Steven King movie. There was blood everywhere around the kennel and there was Droste. He was drenched in frantic dog odor, eyes dilated and bloodshot, tongue loose and hanging, and paws soaked in blood. He had worked himself into a frenzy and then proceeded to work on clawing himself out through the metal grid door. When he couldn't get out and his little claws on his paws had taken as much strain as he could tolerate, he just bled, and bled, and bled. The kennel, we soon realized, wasn't going to work. Instead, we opted for locking him in a room. If nothing else, the area he could destroy would be small and confined. The first time we did this, at my brother's house, we realized that the door to the room would need to be sturdy, preferably metal. We came to this realization after we came home to more blood, and a door that was shredded like cheese taken off the brick through a grater from the door knob all the way to threshold. It always amazed me that such a small dog could be so destructive and...expensive. Knowing that he didn't do well with the kennel, or wood, or wooden doors, the next time we left him alone at my in-laws' house, we sought out a very solid spot to house him. It was a no-brainer that this solid place was my father-in-law's workroom, in the basement, complete with a strong door and cement floor. Looking around the room, there was really nothing that Droste could destroy, no matter what his anxiety level. We put him in the room and felt confident that he would be okay. The room was so sturdy and so stark. I turned to shut the door, but something in his eyes disturbed me. He gave me a long, blank stare, but then his eyes flashed with a momentary glimpse of panic. I noticed this, but said in a calm voice, "You're okay, Droste; behave." When we returned, the house was quiet and I was – for a moment – relieved. I was just about to say, "Wow, he survived," when I looked down the basement stairs and noticed something fluffy. Something very fluffy and...

"Holy Shit. He ripped up the carpet! He frickin' shredded the entire hallway of carpet!" I still don't know exactly how he did it, but he managed to work his paws under the door just enough to snag the little loops of my in-laws' Berber carpet. Given the size of the pile of carpet yarn, he had been working it for some time. He succeeded snagging and shredding an area no smaller than 4 feet by 20 feet. If there is any silver lining to the carpet story, it is that my in-laws were out of town. Thank God. I was able to track down a carpet replacement and hire someone to fix the disaster before they returned. It cost me time and money, but it was a lucky, lucky save. And, as the carpet people were fixing the mess by piece and gluing carpet, Droste planted himself solidly at my feet and absent mindedly chewed on his tennis ball, as if he were completely at peace.

Like I said, he hasn't been an easy dog to love. He's made me work for it and has cost me relationships in the meantime. And yet, I can't imagine my life without him. He has been so loyal to me. It's a loyalty that is hard to ignore. And no one could deny that he has more personality than most humans, and he has always been tough. Which is why, at 3:20 am with him standing on my pillow and whining, I was worried about his condition.

"What's the matter, Baby Boy? Are you okay?" He only moaned. "What's the matter? Why are you waking me?" Again, he moaned. He turned away from me and tried to move towards the foot of the bed, but his legs gave out. It was then that I realized that his condition was more serious. I woke up completely. I helped him to the foot of the bed and to his side, and although he whimpered, I rubbed his belly and kissed his ears. And the tears came. I knew he was dying and I was grieving. His frail body relaxed under my touch and he looked up at me – helpless – and exhausted. I gently tangled my fingers in his thinning coat and said goodbye. I thanked him for his love and for listening; for hearing my secrets and loving me inspite of them; and for forgiving me when I yelled at him or neglected him because I was just too busy for a dog. I thanked him for being my Baby Boy and for being so good, even when he was so bad. And, after 2 hours of sharing, and crying, and soothing him, I decided it was time to let go. I said goodbye to my Baby Boy, with the full expectation of not seeing him in the morning, and I tucked myself back under my covers. I was at peace with letting him die, on my bed, in his sleep. After all, he was my dog and I loved him. I rolled over and –exhausted– went to sleep.

When morning came, I squinted towards the window at the sun streaming through the sheer curtains. I was so tired. It had been a long and challenging night, but I was happy I had been able to share my final thoughts with Droste. He had been such a good dog. It would be difficult to tell the children, but I would explain that we had a wonderful time saying goodbye and that Droste was finally at peace. Yes, I would tell them of his death, but it would be best to move him off the bed first. Semi-sitting up in bed and balancing myself on my elbows, I held my breath as I gazed at the brown, fluffy lump at my feet. I looked at his body and tried to gain my focus, but I still couldn't make out Droste's head. He seemed so...contorted. Just when I was about to take a closer look, his head popped up and he stared right at me. I shreaked, "OH my God, you little bastard! You aren't dead; you're LICKING yourself!"

Indeed, Droste – My Baby Boy – wasn't ready to die. He was –and still is– very much alive. His time still hasn't come and I'm done guessing when it will be. Instead, each day as I step over him or lean down to pet him I ask, "Drost, are you dead yet?" He responds by lifting his head and looking at me. I reply, "Not today, eh?" One of these days, he won't lift his head and I'll mourn, again. Until then, however, anything is possible.

Did I mention that Droste, The Baby Boy, has a sister? She's a 60 pound Standard Poodle: Magnuson.

The Neighbors: The Farts

2006-08-03T17:16:00.000-05:00

I live next door to the Fart family. Okay, so their last name isn't Fart, at least not in English, but said outloud, their English last name sounds exactly like the Arabic word for fart. I find this terribly amusing. But, the Farts aren't amusing people. They're messy. They're really, really messy. We moved into our house after the Farts did, so it's perplexing that I didn't notice them before we moved in. I often wonder how I could have missed them, considering how unbelievably and obviously messy they really are, but the only explanation I can draw upon is the blind explanation. No, not that we were blind when we bought the house, although we were. No, we were blind to the Fart's messiness because our house had blinds on every single window facing the Fart's house, including our outdoor gazebo, when we bought it. I now understand that I wasn't supposed to see these neighbors, and luckily for the previous owner, I didn't see. The previous owner suceeded in "blinding us from the Farts," and I failed to see them until it was too late. I now live next to a monstrous mess. A mess that grows each year.

Now, aside from being messy, the Farts are very nice people. They always smile and wave, and they're always helping out people who are less fortunate than they are. I like these characteristics. In fact, I admire them. I'm sure they do more for their fellow humans than many of the people who live in this area. (I'm thinking of some of the mansions that speckle our area lakes, complete with pristine lawns coated with a menagearie of chemicals – toxic chemicals – that are more than likely filtering unnamable toxins into our lakes, as they keep the lawns sparkly and shiny! Phew.) And, while the Farts are not tainting the air I breathe and the water I drink, and they are nice people, it is still difficult to embrace the Farts' mess and junk. My admiration only goes so far.

Here are some examples of what I'm trying to convey.

Three years ago, the Farts started painting their house. They painted the outside walls, but never completed painting the window trim. So, to this day, the windows are half white and half black. Evidently, Mr. Fart painted the lower half of the windows to the point where he could no longer reach without getting a ladder. One day, summoning as much courage as I could, I asked Mrs. Fart about this painting job, the one that came to a complete halt two summers ago. When the moment seemed right, I asked, "So, are you going to finish off that window trim this year?" She didn't seem to think this was an odd or intrusive question. She merely said, "No, I think we'll wait a couple of years and then we're going to have the house sided. And, why finish the painting if we're going to side anyway?!"

Of course. Siding!

And now, a year has passed since I asked that fateful question. I'm hoping the house will be sided next summer. I'm not holding my breath, though. This summer we saw some activity around their house and we started to get our hopes up. They had finally removed the old metal, industrial cookie tray holder – the kind of holder that cools trays at fast food places – and managed to get that off to the dump. It was a shame, really, because the vines were climbing on it and it was almost unnoticable. And the grass, well they've been able to keep that short this year with a semi regular cutting schedule and our hot weather, and that's definitely an improvement over last year's 2x a season cutting. Now, the only long, green plant life on their lawn is the weeds. I'm happy to report they're growing beautifully. Oh, and in case you miss seeing the weeds during the day, they are now illuminated at night. Yes, they added "garden" lights this summer. Along the 10 foot path to their front door, they've installed about 20 solar powered lights. I believe that adds up to 2 lights per foot, leading right to their front steps. The benefit of the lights is that visitors will no longer have to trip over the ripped carpet on the front steps. No. All visitors will be able to see their way around the danger.

Along with the solar lights, the neighbors have two other new additions this year: the bright blue, pvc framed, plastic pool and the El Camino! The El Camino is not yet in running condition and we are already taking bets on the pool. How long will the pool box stay in the yard? And, how long will the pool stay in the yard after summer is long gone and the pool is nothing more that the "molted skin" of summer fun? No one is willing to bet any real money. Last year's kiddie pool is still in the yard. They merely moved it to the west to make room for the new – larger – pool. Their camper is there too. Covered in leaves and pine needles, it managed to weather a brutal winter and a rainy spring, in the same location. The tires are not yet flat, though, but that will probably be next.

Oh, the Farts are messy people, but they're thoughtful. Mr. Fart came over the other day to make sure it was okay that he worked on his El Camino. (Did I mention that it's brown with ivory trim?) He wanted my approval because it would be "a little bit loud," in his estimation! Mr. F. is a thin, shy, pale man and I'm sure it took incredible courage to walk up to my front door and talk to me. (He doesn't make eye contact, ever, which leads me to believe I scare him.) So, when he courageously asked for permission to work on the El Camino, I patiently (and in a hushed, soothing voice) said, "Oh, how very nice of you to check with me. And, as it turns out, the noise would definitely be a problem. In about twenty minutes, I'm expecting 15 guests for dinner. We're eating outside on our gazebo and the noise would be a tremendous problem, but thanks for checking with me. That was kind of you!" Later that night, after a couple of glasses of wine and as we were setting off a small ammo-dump of fireworks, I thought of Mr. F. It was nice that he was concerned about the noise. In the future, I would extend the same courtesy and tell him that he was more than welcome to work on the El Camino whenever he wished, so long as we weren't having company. After all, we will probably be living next to them for some time.

Philosophy

2006-08-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

I live my life somewhere between the wisdom of Yoda ("Do or do not. There is no try.") and Bart Simpson ("I can't promise I'll try. But I'll try to try.) For me, it is a life of sheer certainty, complete uncertainty, and – as you can imagine – difficult decision making. For my family, I'm sure this life with me is pure hell. My writing isn't immune to this life-in-various-philosophies, either. Some days I know exactly what I want to write. It feels right, so I write. Other days, I may want to write, but it doesn't "feel" right, so I don't.

I seem to have had an entire summer of "not feeling right enough to write." Maybe it has been the extraordinarily hot summer we've had. Maybe it's the laziness that sneaks in when I don't have enough to do. Maybe it's just this: enjoying the summer with my girls is much more fun than writing. I really don't know one reason why I haven't written.

But, Yoda calls. Did I mention that we bought a pop up camper this summer?

the light

2006-06-16T13:56:00.000-05:00

i opened the veil
and the light came
in a tiny stream,
but still it blinded.
as it flooded inside,
there was no view.
no Other.

warmth also flooded in
but all was exposed.
there was no hiding.
i stood
open to be seen,
but without seeing.
there was just the light,
no Other.

letting in the light,
i lost the ability
to see in the dark.
i was left with Neither.

My Cars: The Journey

2006-05-27T11:58:00.000-05:00

In honor of my father, on the upcoming anniversary of his death, June 5, 1999.

We all have memories of a favorite car. And when I say, "favorite," I really mean memorable. I have three memorable cars: my first car, a VW Beetle; my car in college, Tammy the Turbo Toyota; and my dad's Mazda 626.

The VW wasn't really my car, it was the kids' car, a classification that really meant: keep your paws of Mom and Dad's sa-weet ride; you have your own car, one we don't care if you crash, a Beetle. The Beetle, a 1969 Beetle (not the Super Beetle, either), was bright blue with white naugahyde interior. Well, it had naugahyde interior when my older brothers drove it, but when I was finally able to get my hands on the wheel, the interior was old and cracked, so I quickly sewed slip covers. Classy slip covers: a real Martha Stewart moment (only this was waaaayy before Martha)! They were made out of old sheets and what made them so special was the design. They were blue, like denim, and on top of the blue they were covered in large Peanuts characters. That's right, Snoopy, Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus, and even Woodstock. They were more than classy; they were cool. Joe Cool! I drove that VW all over Dhahran (I grew up in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, but that's a different entry!). The VW served a purpose greater than transportation. It was my key to social life. My friends and I would hop in that dusty (again, the desert) little Beetle and cruise all over our compound. I even had a friend who knew how to change the odometer so my dad wouldn't know how much I was really driving it. I wanted to avoid the questions like, "How could you put 150 miles on the VW? The town is only 10 miles wide!" The questions were more about my purpose for driving, not the cost. Back then, gas was only 13¢ a gallon in Arabia, so money wasn't an object. I could drive for weeks on a tank of gas. It would have been hard to explain that the only purpose for driving the VW so many miles was to secure my social life. The VW was perfect for that. And while the VW was perfect in many ways, there were two problems with it. Both problems centered around the radio. The first was the radio never worked when I was driving straight ahead. I'd try to turn it on, and nothing. So, to solve the problem, I'd bring along my boom box. Okay, it wasn't a boom box; it was a tape recorder, but it still played tapes. My best friend, always shot gun, would man the tapes and light our smokes while I drove. We'd roll down the windows (no air conditioning, either) and let the warm, Arabian night air whip our hair all over the place. We didn't care; we were young, a bit rebellious, and enjoying every minute of our youth. Remember that I said there were two problems involving the radio? Well, the second problem was like an alarm clock reigning in on my dream of perfect, youthful, cruising moments. Yes, the radio. The radio that refused to work under normal driving conditions, insisted on turning on as I flicked the turning signal with my right hand and turned the steering wheel to the left with my left hand. BLLLLAAAAAMMMM! It never failed to go off and it scared the absolute piss out of me every time. Oh, you'd think – after nearly wetting my pants because it startled me so much – I could have figured this problem out and would have given up signaling all together, but no. I was the driving education student who took the class and it's lessons very seriously. There was no way I was going to forget the signaling portion of the driving lessons taught by Ms. Rustadt. So, everytime I turned left, the horn would blare; I'd jump, swear, and then I'd laugh and vow I would remember not to signal the next time. I never remembered. The horn, the sheets, and the memories of the 1969 VW Beetle are always with me. I can't pass a VW or a Peanuts character without a flashback to that first car. I can still imagine the burning sensation of grabbing the steering wheel after it had been baking in the hot, Arabian sun.

My second most memorable car was my first car in college. It was a Toyota, affectionately named, Tammy. My parents bought Tammy for me the summer between my freshman and sophmore year at the U of M. It didn't take long to convince my mom that the two mile walk from my apartment to my job at the day care center – the job where I worked everyday and came home smelling like the urine of 22 toddlers – wasn't a safe walk. The urine might have been a repellant, but my mom didn't want to risk my safety to find out. She took me shopping for my first car. Finding the car wasn't difficult. I wanted a stick-shift, a sedan, and I had a budget. Tammy met all three of these requirements in plain, conservative glory. She was almost completely opposite from me, and I just knew she had to be mine. I watched as my mom pulled out her checkbook and wrote the check. I was in awe. I also remember the thrill of driving my "new" car out of the lot on that breezy summer evening. After I drove her back to my place, I checked out all of her features – again –and I checked out the trunk. In the trunk, I found a pair of women's shoes, obviously left behind by the previous owner. The shoes, purple pumps in a size 13, always made me wonder if the previous owner was a woman or a man. It was a mystery that made driving Tammy so much more fun. Everytime I thought of the pumps in the trunk, I laughed. The images of either a man in purple pumps, or a very large woman in purple pumps always tickled me. So, I left the shoes in the trunk, just because I appreciated their size and the unlimited possibilities of their owner. With purple pumps in trunk, Tammy helped me navigate my college experience. She, like the VW, enhanced my social life. She helped me drive friends all over Minneapolis, including two memorable trips out to the airport. On one airport trip, Tammy guided a friend and I through a blinding blizzard to pick up another friend. We laughed that Tammy was so powerful, and we watched the snow fly up over her hood while we sang to "Band on the Run" playing on the radio. Another time, Tammy hauled a group of us out to the airport to watch the Super Bowl. We figured the bars in Minneapolis would be crowded, but the airport would at least have turnover. If we waited long enough, we'd get a table. So, we drove to the airport and sure enough, we got a table. Tammy was there for all of those important college experiences: backing into a parked car during Campus Carnival; driving at 3:00 am without my lights on (no ticket, thank God); driving me home after the breakup with my boyfriend, and then driving me on a date with one of his best friends a week later. I was with another friend-of-ex-boyfriend the night we came out of his fraternity to find a man sleeping in the back seat of Tammy. I didn't really like the boy, but I was glad he was there with me. As for the fraternity, it was after a party there that my roommate and I discovered our keys worked in each other's cars. She jumped into Tammy and started her. When she looked down and saw the stick shift – she drove an automatic Toyota – she realized it was my Tammy, not her car. Weird. And, ah yes. Tammy always came through. The first time my husband asked me out, he was walking me to my parked Tammy. Then, we took Tammy on our first date, and our second, and our third. Unfortunately, Tammy didn't survive much longer. The battery was the first part to go; then the muffler, alternator and clutch. I finally traded her in on a new car, a car that never came close to Tammy status. I didn't even name the new car. I just drove it for a year and traded it as well. Since Tammy, I've had 5 cars. Three of the five cars have been Hondas, and the other two have been an Escort (worst car ever made) and a VW. I haven't owned a Toyota since Tammy, but lately, I've been looking at them again. I have such fond memories.

Finally, the third most memorable car I've owned came to me because of a very sad event: the death of my father. My dad died in 1999 and left behind his infamous, gold with tan interior, 1987 Mazda 626. The Mazda wasn't my dad's car to begin with, it was my youngest brother's. The story is really much more interesting than just that. The Mazda was the car that my parents bought for my brother in college, and somehow they managed to buy it FROM my brother when he got his first real job. That job came with the benefit of a company car, so he no longer needed the Mazda. I never really understood how my brother managed to sell the Mazda to my parents, especially after they had purchased it in the first place, but knowing my dad, he didn't think about it. He just paid for it, again.

The Mazda. What was so special about it? Well, my brother drove it all through college, and when my dad acquired it, it had already seen better days. The car was rusty and the upholstery was nappy and stained. It had character. At one point, my brother had some "work" done to the door and after that point, every time the door was opened, the song, "How Dry I Am" rang out. My brother had placed a sticker advertising his private high school in the back window and when my dad finally bought the car for himself, he left my brother's sticker and added his own. The new sticker read, "I support public schools!" That was the Mazda. It seemed to meet everyone's needs. What was really special about the Mazda was the character my dad seemed to give it. Everyday my dad drove the Mazda to and from his job teaching at the local technical college. He'd drive to school, smoking his pipe, and yet never once did he think that maybe he should crack a window. The windows were a veil of blue haze. And maintenance, well that was a term completely unfamiliar to my dad. I remember one time he let me borrow the car. "Watch the breaks," he said. "They're a little SOFT." I came to my first stop sign and found myself sliding through have of the intersection. Shit, the breaks weren't soft, they didn't even exist! Then there was the accident. No one knows how it happened, but the Mazda managed to get into an accident all by itself. Somehow, when my parents were in Arizona for the winter and the Mazda was left alone on the hill at their lake house in Minnesota, the Mazda managed to escape. It rolled down the hill – backwards – and found itself wrapped around a tree. We all suspected that my dad had forgetten to put it in gear, but we didn't press for the cause. My dad was heartbroken over the accident, but when he returned to MN in the spring, he was very thrilled to discover that the Mazda had sustained little damage. The tree wasn't as lucky. My dad fixed the damage on the Mazda (a tire and a bumper), and then continued to drive the car for a few more years. Wherever he went in the Mazda, people waved. Everyone in town knew the Mazda and its driver. That car was my dad's and they loved him for it, or they were at least amused. In the spring of '99, my dad packed up the old Mazda with all of his math text books and the various odds and ends of a lifetime of teaching, and he retired. He drove the Mazda home, parked it on the hill of their lake house, and never did get a chance to clean out the trunk. My dad died a few months later, in June of that year.

After Dad's death, the Mazda became an object sentimentality. It was so much a part of who my dad was that I had to have it. I didn't have a choice when it came to saying goodbye to my dad, but I could still have the Mazda. My mom gave the car to me, knowing that it needed a lot of work. I didn't clean my dad's books out of the trunk, I just drove the car home and started the job of repairing it. Naturally, the first repair job was the breaks. We thought the brakes would be simple, just pads and maybe some shoes. Well, we weren't lucky enough to have an easy brake job. The whole job ended up costing us over $800 dollars because there was some issue with the bearings. Whatever. We paid. And then, since the brakes were so expensive, we decided we should have new tires. The new tires led to replacing the battery, and on the day the battery was installed, the muffler fell off in our driveway. We replaced that the next week.
Despite the fact that we were throwing money into the Mazda, we still loved it. It wasn't a very reliable car, but it was so obviously my dad's car and that filled a void. We felt connected to my dad through the car, even though he wasn't with us. This connection came about in many ways. The most memorable being the After Eights. One day, about 2 years after Dad's death, I noticed my husband eating an After Eight mint. I said, "Hey, that reminds me of my dad and Arabia." He replied, "That's funny. It's from the Mazda. I found a whole unopened box in the trunk!" Who knew how long the After Eights had really been in the trunk of the car, but after a long case of the heebie jeebies, it made me think, I need to clean out that trunk!

We didn't drive the Mazda very often. We just kept it. Then one day, on a cold winter day and as I was about to take our girls to school, I discovered that our van had a dead battery. I piled everyone into the Mazda and off we went. The Mazda was smoking a little bit, but it was no big deal - or so I thought. Feeling confident that the Mazda was running well, I decided to drive to Target. (Did I mention that we had to drive the car with the windows down in the winter -in Minnesota- because the gas fumes entered in through the trunk?) It was a big mistake to go to Target. The car choked one of its last breaths in the middle of a busy intersection. I walked to a nearby car dealer (love the irony there) and called for help. My husband came from work, jumped the car, and helped me get the car back home. We made it home, but only by coasting it the last few yards on the street, right in front of our house. We called a friend who knows about cars and he told us the car was seeing it's last days. It wouldn't pay to even try to fix it. For the next few weeks, we contemplated what to do with it. We'd have to pay to have it towed and we knew from a neighbor with prior crap-car experience, who told us that even if we wanted to give it away, no one would take it. We thought that we could drive it and maybe it would catch on file and burn, but we were afraid that it would just die in front of someone else's house. Instead, we just left it in front of our house. I'm sure our neighbors loved that! About three weeks later, I woke to a phone call.

Jay was calling me from work. "Look outside and tell me what you see." I looked and said, "Nothing, why?"
"EXACTLY," he said. Then there was enlightenment.
"Oh my God, where's the Mazda?" came out of me. He told the story.
Appartently, a kid – 16 and stoned out of his mind – came around the corner in his mom's conversion van and hit the Mazda so hard it ended up in my neighbor's yard. The kid had no idea what he had hit, but thankfully he wasn't hurt (padded by the textbooks still in the trunk, no doubt). The boy's insurance company paid $1000 for the Mazda to be totalled out. Our local city police gave us a ticket for illegal parking: not for parking on the street, which is legal, but for parking on the neighbor's yard. It seemed so obvious, but no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't convince the cops that the accident impact caused the Mazda to be thrown up on the lawn. We paid the fine, but privately worried that these people were in charge of protecting us. When the money was all exchanged, we had one more task to complete before we could say goodbye to the Mazda forever. We needed to clean out the trunk.

We all drove down to the junk yard where the car had been towed, and popped the trunk. We started to take my dad's items out of the trunk and then I began to cry. There were books: The History of Mathematics, symbolizing his career as a math teacher, and The Internet for Seniors, a book that was going to occupy his retirement days. There was a bumper sticker, "You can always tell a Swede, but you can't tell him much," and there were other odds and ends: pencils, rulers, protractors. There was nothing of great value, but everything to me had value. As they helped me dig through the boxes, my husband and girls held up each of the worthless items like priceless treasures. Do you want this book? What about this box of rubber bands? Hey, Mom, I think you should keep this coffee cup, it was Grandpa's. I didn't have the heart to tell them that I didn't want any of it, I just wanted my dad back. When the job was complete, most of the items from the trunk ended up in the trash. We made one last thorough search of the car to make sure that nothing "important" was left behind and then we closed the doors and the trunk for the last time.

I don't know if I'll feel any particular attachment to future cars. Looking back at the VW, Tammy, and the Mazda, the bond was never really between me and the car. The bond was always between me and the memories; the car was just the vehicle for the memories, the transportation. All of my cars have carried me from place to place and in doing so, have been part of the journey. Some, because of the memories associated with them, are just more important than others.

Summer Schedule at the Fitness Center, Music and Sedaris

2006-05-26T13:31:00.000-05:00

Let me just say this: the people who go to the Fitness Center during the day are a completely different crowd than the night crowd. For this reason, I'll need to pay attention to what music I listen to and what I read.

Now that school is out, I've been going to the Fitness Center during the daytime instead of at night.

And, before you start to think of me as a workout junkie, because I'm writing about working out, let me add how much I really hate going to the Fitness Center. I hate it! I can't think of a more boring way to pass my time than walking on the treadmill. Oh, and it's not just because the treadmill is boring. I've tried the other pieces of equipment and they're all bad. Really, there is no piece of workout equipment that is anything short of torturous. The least torturous is the treadmill, so that's the one I use, and I only use it because I have to. For me, it's like flossing my teeth, cleaning out the kitchen drain, or emptying my Toy Poodle's anal sacs. I don't like any of these activities, but I see there is some need, so I do them. That's why I walk on the treadmill.

So, I've been walking in the daytime lately, and the crowd is noticably different and much older than the night crowd. It's quite comforting, really, to be on the treadmill next to a guy who's pushing 80. It makes me feel much younger, unlike walking next to the 20 year old who is jogging and not even breaking a sweat. Yes, the day crowd is much more my speed. I don't, however, know if they're very pleased that I'm now part of their morning routine. Take today for example. Because I hate working out (see above), I do as much as I possibly can to distract myself from what is really happening: painful, boring, sweaty work. I always play my iPod as loud as I can, and I listen to music that is very distracting (Roisin Murphy's "Ramalama Bang Bang;" Barry Harris' "Dive into the Pool;" or anything else with a strong beat or an angry sound). In addition to listening to the music, I read on the treadmill. Yes, I've been told it's dangerous, and I've been questioned about it..."How do you DO that?" But, for some reason, I can read on the treadmill and it's easier than trying to watch some crappy TV show. I usually try to read something that makes me think (again, for distraction), like essays in College English, but I have read novels too. Today, I made a reading mistake. On my way out the door, I grabbed David Sedaris' Naked. I've read most of his books, but there were still a few essays I hadn't read in Naked, so I thought I would finish it off. It wasn't until after my workout was half over that it even dawned on me...this was not a good choice.

First of all, there is the title of the book, Naked. For people unfamiliar with Sedaris, I can only imagine what they could think reading such a title. Combine this with the geriatric population at the Fitness Center this morning and it isn't a pretty picture. I got my first sensation of this when I set down the book at the communal cubbies so I could, like Mr. Rogers, change into my working out tennies. The man next to me looked at the book, looked up at me, and looked back at the book. He just stared. I flipped the book over. And, that's when it dawned on me that the title could cause a few raised eyebrows. When I got to my treadmill, I put the book – cover side down – on the stats panel and put on my music. The beat got me going. Then, I turned on the treadmill and started to warm up. When I was comfortable with the pace, I turned up my music and began to "walk with attitude," my way of describing how I was really yearning to dance, but was constricted by the linear, swift moving apparatus and the social norms of the Fitness Center. That and visions of Elaine's dancing "ability" on Seinfeld. I grabbed the book. I turned to my dog-earred page and started reading. I was in my own world. With my tunes and my book, there was no one at the Fitness Center for me to hear or see, and while that's what I like, that was probably my biggest problem. That and the reality that I was reading David Sedaris, funniest writer on the planet. Within the first two paragraphs, I started smiling. Then, giggling.
By the end of the page, I was laughing so hard my eyes started to water and run. I quickly jumped off the conveyor belt and straddled the moving band while standing on the running boards. I shut the book and grabbed my t-shirt sleeve to wipe my eyes. As I was wiping my eyes, I looked up and saw a row of treadmills in the mirror before me. Each treadmill had a walker or runner on it and the vast majority of those people were looking right at me –staring at me – possibly pleading for me to please stop it! I felt like I should offer some explanation. Some lame explanation like, "It's David Sedaris; my mistake. I should have known better than to read Sedaris in public." Instead I put the book back on the stats panel – cover side down – and hopped back on the moving treadmill. I didn't pick up the book again, nor did I look up again. In the future, I probably should walk at night. And, leave Sedaris at home.

OOD's move at two and a half years old

2006-05-24T11:57:00.000-05:00

When OOD was two and a half years old, she and I had a conversation. The conversation began after I had spent the better part of a day sewing a series of cushions for a little, white, wicker settee on our front porch. Within minutes of finishing the final stitches and putting the cushion in place, OOD hopped up on top of the settee, crossed her legs like a pretzel and said, “This is MY couch!” Calmly, but firmly (after all, I had just spent my entire day creating the settee), I responded, “No honey, that’s mommy’s settee!” Looking back on the day, I should have just let her claim the settee as her own, but there are times in motherhood when a mom feels she has given up everything and just needs to be selfish. This was one of those times. I had to claim the settee as mine. Well, I could tell that she was not happy with the way I had just taken away her settee, so I added, “The settee is mine, but so are you!”

Even the added peace offering wasn’t good enough for OOD. She looked right at me, and with as much spite as a two and a half year old can spit out, she said, “I want to live with Diane!” Now, Diane was a friend of mine, and I’m sure that OOD thought by saying this she was really getting to me, and the truth is that it did bother me, but I wasn’t going to let her know that. I simply replied, “Well, if you move in with Diane, you can’t come back home.” Without batting an eyelash, OOD added, “Never-ever!”
“What about your little sister, OMD, wouldn’t you miss her?” I said.
“Oh, I would take OMD with me,” she said.
“But then I wouldn’t have any girls and I would be very sad.”
“Maybe you could get two boys!”
It became obvious that OOD was not about to let me win the battle that began over the settee, and was willing to move out of the house because of it. I decided to play along. “Well, I’m sad, but you’d better go pack if you’re going to move in with Diane,” I said. “Oh okay, and I’d better pack my blankie in my backpack,” OOD replied with excitement. This was not going the way I was hoping, but I let her go to her room and pack for her journey to Diane’s.

After about ten minutes, I decided to check in on her. She was still packing, and to my horror, she appeared to be enjoying herself and seemed to be excited about the mere thought of moving away from me. I couldn’t take it any longer. I was heartbroken. “OOD, I need to talk to you, come and sit next to mommy on the bed, “ was how I began. “I love you so much and it hurts my feelings to think that you’d rather live with Diane than your own mommy.” I was slightly irrational, but determined to let her know the extent of my feelings. “I don’t know what I’d do without you; you are so special to me.” And so I continued on and on for a good five minutes –at least. OOD sat very still and listened intently to what I was saying. I felt that she was with me, understanding everything I was saying and carefully absorbing my outpouring. Then, finally, when I felt I had drained every last drop of feeling out of me, I paused and quietly said, “Honey, what are you thinking?” With eyes as round as moons, she looked right at me, took a deep breath and asked, “Mommy, why is your breath so stinky?”

Dance Party: Spring Dance Show 2006

2006-05-23T11:49:00.000-05:00

This year's spring dance show started on a Tuesday evening with rehearsal and continued through Sunday evening. There was one show on Friday, three shows on Saturday, and two shows on Sunday. Each show was about three hours long. In all, OOD performed 48 dances for audiences. OMD performed 36 dances for audiences, and OYD performed 4 dances. All three girls were physically and mentally exhausted by the end of the weekend, but they had a ball! They really love to dance.
Key to pictures:
1st picture: Tina Turner Medley (actually from Minneapolis competition) This group will perform at a Twins game this year.
2nd picture: OOD as Tina
3rd picture: Group Tina at Spring Show
4th picture: OMD (on right) tap dancing
5th picture: OOD twirling in a jazz dance
6th picture: OYD in polka dots and curls (on left)

BALLROOM BLITZ!

2006-05-23T11:08:00.000-05:00

BALLROOM BLITZ!

One of the favorite dances this year was Ballroom Blitz! In this dance, the Competition lines wore 70s and 80s formal dresses and danced to the song, "Ballroom Blitz". OMD wore a dress that was given to us by a friend. The friend had worn the dress (a bridesmaid dress) in her brother's wedding in the late 70s. It was a puffy dress with pale blue flowers. The brother is no longer married, but he attended the show. I wonder if he noticed the dress? OMD looked like a princess in the dress!
OOD wore one of my old, sorority formal dresses. I wore the dress to the Calhoun Beach Club years ago (the 8os, as if it isn't obvious!). I can remember wearing the satin, silver dress like it was yesterday. Actually, the dress was originally an afterthought, a dress to go with a great pair of shoes I just had to have! For the dance show, I had to alter the dress to make it smaller for OOD, but it looked really cute on her.

Under the blade

2006-05-16T20:32:00.000-05:00

The Spring Dance Show was the weekend before last. I had great intentions of writing that event (not counting the rehearsals, OOD danced 48 times, OMD danced 36 times, and OYD danced 4 times), but I still haven't written about the show. I was too tired to write about the dancing after the show and then, last Friday, there was the date with the blade. Yes, my date with the blade: the surgical blade.

The blade story might be more interesting (at least more graphic) than the dance show, but now that I think about it, it isn't any less intense. Dance takes on it's own fear, courage, and brutality, much like surgery. Surgery, however, is more amusing, especially if you live through it. So, I'll write about dance later, but for now, I'll write about surgery.

Other than oral surgery, I've had three surgeries in my life time. The first surgery was a laparoscopy to diagnose and "laser" my Endometriosis (a disease that doctors don't know a lot about, but a lot of women have, including me, and WE KNOW ABOUT IT). The second surgery, a C-Section, came in 1999, thanks to OYD, who decided to play gymnastics in my stomach and assume the position of a jelly fish: head and butt sideways, arms and legs straight down – yes, kicking my bladder at every given opportunity. The third surgery, this past Friday's surgery, was a result of the past two surgeries (do you like how this is multiplying?). Because of the Endometriosis and the previous C-Section, I had a "growth" in my lower abdomen (one can't help but think of Alien and Sigourney Weaver). The lump needed to come out, according to my doctor, just so she could see what it was. (This, by the way, is never a convincing reason to have surgery, but it does take the mind off other "growth" possibilities: cancerous tumors, giant blood clots, alien implantation (there's that Weaver allusion again), or whatever the creative – or neurotic –mind decides to germinate and feed). Despite a body that always seems to "punch out" before the work day whistle blows, my mind – especially my creative, neurotic mind – tends to work overtime.

So, the surgery to *free* the lump took place first thing Friday morning. But, this story really begins before the surgical event. About a week before surgery, I was under the impression that the lump removal would be quick, like removing a wart, or something, but then there was a phone call.
"Hello Ms. C, this is Dr. ?'s nurse, and we need to schedule your pre-op surgery physical for the anesthesiologist."
ME, trying to be calm,"What anesthesiologist. I don't think I need an anesthesiologist. What kind of surgery is this? And, why do I need a physical? Have the doctor call me IMMEDIATELY." click.

Well, as it turned out, the doctor had called in an anesthesiologist only because she didn't know what she'd find and she wanted to have options. She claimed is was "standard procedure" now that I was 40, thanks to insurance companies. Also, she wanted to give me the opportunity to decide my method of pain relief. THIS was new to me. I had the freedom to decide how this surgery would take place? REALLY? Is that safe?!

I went in for my pre-op appointment and the doctor, curious like my doctor, asked, "Mind if I feel the lump?"
"Sure, but there will be a small charge. (pause) Just kidding." He didn't find that was too funny, so I said, "Yes, you can feel the lump." As he was feeling the lump, I found myself contemplating the situation. Doctors seem to think that it's okay to be curious about the body because it's their profession. It would be like me asking, "Do you mind if I read my chart to see if it's well written, you know, creative or grammatically correct? I'm curious about writing, so I'd like to examine yours!" I was tempted to address this, but I knew he wouldn't see the amusement. So, the appointment ended. The doctor thought the lump was "unusual," but offered the possibility of a hernia. I just responded, "Interesting," but thought, "No, you're wrong," and went on my merry way.

Then, on the Friday morning of the surgery, the anesthesiologist, just as my doctor had said he would, walked into my waiting room. My waiting room was one of the many waiting rooms in the surgical suite. It was, like the others, decorated with a green plaid curtain with tan accents, giving the surgical waiting room area the appearance of Perkins, more than any serious room in a hospital. This added a whole new bundle of fears to the ones I had already been cultivating, but I tried not to allow them to the surface. I tried to avoid direct eye contact with the green plaid curtains.

The anesthesiologist looked at his clipboard and said is a chipper voice,
"Hello. So, we're going to put you under today?"
Who's we? And then outloud I said, "Um, NO, YOU'RE NOT."
"Yes, I see. It says here, on your chart, that you throw up with general anesthesia?"
"Oh, yes I do. But, I won't be going under today. My doctor told me I had choices."

Then, he just stared at me. It was almost as if he was thinking, "You're a funny, crazy one, aren't you?" I smiled at him.

"I'll be right back. I think your doctor is here and I'll talk to her."
"Super." Whatever you do, don't look at the curtains...

A few minutes later he came back into my booth, I mean, my room. "So, how does sedation sound? Dr. ? thinks she can do this locally with sedation." He said this as a question, but it was really a command.

Yes, S-E-D-A-T-I-O-N. "That sounds perfect." The deal was done.

So, before I could rethink the whole procedure and run for the nearest exit, I found myself standing in front of the mirror in my room with an electric razor and a sponge filled with Betadine solution. The nurse, sounding bossy and apathetic all at once said, "Shave your belly, and when you're done, add a bit of water to the sponge and soap up the whole area. You don't need to use the side of the sponge with the bristles, but make sure you scrub thoroughly. Oh, and put a towel down on the ground first." She shut the curtain and left the room.

What the hell is this, A SELF SERVE HOSPITAL? I felt like I was at one of those self serve car washes. Don't use the bristle side, but scrub thoroughly?" How subjective is that? Did the nurse realize that she had just given instructions to someone who obsesses about language? What did thoroughly mean to her, and what were the dimensions of the whole area? (I had flash backs to college English and philosophy courses.) I did my best job and scrubbed my belly the way I clean the grocery store fruits that come from foreign lands. No offense to foreign lands, but I've lived in one and I know what can happen. So, I clean my fruit from foreign lands, and while I'm never sure if I clean them properly, I haven't gotten sick, so it must be thorough enough. (And, while the grocery store fruit logic was faulty, in this situation, it was all I had.) When I was done, the nurse came in and asked to look at the area. "Looks good," she said. In my head, I was running over a snappy response, "Yeah, it looks good, but I just licked my hands and smoothed them over the entire area. That's okay, isn't it?" I kept my mouth shut.

Once I was scrubbed clean and smooth, the I.V. was inserted (clumsily, but I cut the tech a break because she looked like she was 12 and she was nice). Soon, I was walking to the operating room. Yes, walking, something you never see on ER or Grey's Anatomy. Once in the operating room, I was guided up on the skinny, cold, metal table. The operating room, like all operating rooms, was huge and sterile, frightening and impressive. Again, not like your typical Hollywood operating room. I said outloud, "Wow, this metal surfboard-of-a-table is much more comfortable when you're not 9 months pregnant!" One of the heavy (very heavy) nurses said, "Yea, you can imagine how I feel up on that thing!" I laughed and as I did, another nurse said, "Well it has to be thin so the surgeons can get close to you during surgery." Gosh, and I thought it was only thin because polished, thin chrome is the latest in home fashion right now. (One of many sarcastic thoughts.) Luckily, before I could say anything, I heard, "Okay, we're going to sedate you now." Phew, just in time.

The rest of the surgery is now a blur. I remember being spoken to, and I remember thinking that the operating staff couldn't see how stoned I was, or they wouldn't talk to me. I remember the doctor holding up a vile with my lump and saying something like, "chicken rubber," or something like that. I remember thinking I should have my iPod in my ears to really enjoy the experience. I remember hoping I had scrubbed the entire area thoroughly. Then, in what seemed like seconds, I was back in my Perkins booth watching the Today show on the little TV.

In the end, the surgery was a success and a failure. The success came in the pathology. The lump was indeed Endometriosis. I wasn't a hermaphrodite, as I had previously joked with friends, and I wasn't a victim of alien implantation. Also, they hadn't found an instrument from my previous C-Section, so the idea of free college tuition for my children was out of the question; there would be no lawsuit. No, I was just a healthy woman with an overactive immune system; news I already knew. Success because in the end, I was going to be just fine. The failure of the procedure happened after I left the O.R. That afternoon, after a nap, I woke to a cantelope sized lump and bruise near the incision site. I immediately thought about the self serve prep procedure and called my doctor. Surely, I hadn't cleaned my stomach as well as I clean my fruit. I was told the doctor needed to see me right away. In her office, I was told that I had some internal bleeding, something the doctor had tried to prevent because with Endometriosis patients, bleeding can lead to new growth of scar tissue. The bleeding would stop; the bruise and lump would eventually go away. Would there be more scar tissue? Maybe not, but then again, maybe. If there is more scar tissue, I could find myself back in the O.R. I would be right back where I was at the beginning of this whole event. The failure is that it could happen all over again. The next time, however, they'll know what the lump is; I hope.

Crocs and a Bubble Wrap dress

2006-04-30T21:59:00.000-05:00

I have a new pet peeve: Crocs, those big, rubber, flipper shoes that might be okay for the beach or the garden, but don't belong in church. Okay, so I haven't actually seen anyone wearing them at church, but I know it's only a matter of time. What is it with these shoes? I keep hearing that they're "comfortable" and "you can hose them off" (whatever that means), but really now, is that the only reason people wear them? If so, why not wear a dress made of bubble wrap. I'm sure that would be comfy. Think of the padding and the cushion the dress would give you every time you sat down, not to mention the "cover" it would provide for embarrassing "I've-only-eaten-prunes-and-cabbage-today" gas. All a person would have to say is, "Oh, did you think I just passed gas? That was only my Bubble Wrap dress; it pops when I sit down!" And, while the Bubble Wrap dress could be hosed off, I don't see people walking around the local mall in one, no matter how comfortable or practical it might be. Additionally, I can't imagine a hot pink Bubble Wrap dress, or a Swedish royal blue one, but these bright colors seem perfectly okay for Crocs. Have people lost their minds? If the bright colors weren't enough, it appears that very big (not just plump, but large boned, almost Viking like) people wear the brightest color Crocs. I've seen children in these bright shoes and I'd admit they're kind of cute on little people, but adults who weigh more than 200 pounds and are over six feet tall should try to avoid them. Just today, I witnessed such a person. It was the ultimate sighting, and I have the weather to thank for that. It has been raining for days here – grey, non-stop drizzle – and today, as I was dodging puddles on my way into the grocery store, I saw her: a woman, well over 200 pounds and almost six feet tall was running through the rain in her black stretch pants, hunter green top, and bright yellow Crocs. One thought went through my mind:
It's a Mallard!

Thank you, Easter Bunny.

2006-04-25T21:20:00.000-05:00

Thank you, Easter Bunny...

St. Patrick's Day

2006-03-17T13:25:00.000-06:00

Every year on St. Patrick's Day, Bots Belvediere opens up the recipe box and scrounges through every recipe until she at last finds the stained-but-faded index card that simply states, "Corned Beef and Cabbage"! Bots, whose heritage is Swedish and English (well, and a smattering of a few others), is definitely not Irish, nor does she wish she was Irish. Ireland is a good place to be from, I suppose, but who would want to live there? The country is too green; the sky is too grey; and the people bicker constantly over religion, which brings us back to St. Patrick's Day. Bots wonders why people celebrate St. Patrick anyway. Didn't St. Patrick drive the snakes out of Ireland (in lore), but bring Christianity to Ireland? The Christianity of Catholics and Protestants who can't figure out how to get along, in Ireland, despite the ultimate commandment to "Love One Another!"? It seems to Bots that the country might have been better off with the snakes!?! Back to the Corned Beef and Cabbage. Every year, in honor of HH's heritage, Bots makes Corned Beef and Cabbage. It's a weird dish: bad beef (pickled, no less) soaked in salt and boiled with potatoes and cabbage. HH loves this; Bots cooks it and politely "tastes" it. It's a blessing (maybe an Irish blessing) that it only has to be eaten once a year. And, here we are again. This morning, before digging into the recipe box, Bots placed a phone call. "So, what are we doing tonight?" Bots asked expecting a predictable answer. "I don't know, what do you want to do?"
"Do you want to go out, or do you want me to make Corned Beef and Cabbage?" Sweating, Bots raised one eyebrow and bit her lower lip.
"No, I don't want to go out." HH thought he heard Bots holding her breath.
"Oh, okay. (exhale) Do you want Corned Beef and Cabbage?" Bots felt the need to ask, but dreaded the answer.
"Not really..."
What??!! Was there something wrong??!! Bots didn't want to reply, for fear that HH would change his mind. Feeling her good fortune, she decided to offer a different Irish dish instead. "How about Potato pancakes?" Bots had never made Potato Pancakes, and wondered why she even suggested them.
"Yeah, that would be okay." HH answered.
"So, should I get bacon to go with them?" Bots had no idea why she offered this, or what she was even saying. The only pancakes she knew about were served with butter and hot, drippy syrup. She had never had Potato Pancakes, but decided that because they were pancakes, they'd be similar to the type she had eaten.
"Bacon with Potato Pancakes?" HH responded in total disbelief, although Bots didn't really understand why. Then, Bots, not sure just how much of an ass she was making of herself, said (uneasily), "Sure."
"Hmm," HH wondered.
"Maybe instead of Potato Pancakes, we should just have waffles."
"WAFFLES?"
Now THAT was the best idea Bots had ever heard on St. Patrick's Day!
"Okay. That sounds great. I'll stop by the store and get bacon." Bot said.
"Make sure we have Bisquick too, for the waffles..." HH added.
"Oh, and I'll get orange juice!"
Hanging up the phone, Bots couldn't believe her luck! Not only was she skipping the whole Corned Beef and Cabbage thing, but she was going to have waffles for dinner! How lucky is that?! Maybe this holiday isn't so bad afterall.

A new game has been created: A Jack Knopf Name Game!

2006-03-08T17:14:00.000-06:00

Move over Fitness Center Bingo, a new game is about to take over. This one can be played at restaurants or any other establishments that need to take your name and call you when they're ready (with the exception of doctors' offices, because...well, that's just dangerous). I'd like to say that I invented this game as well, but like Fitness Center Bingo, this new game has its own pedigree, so to speak. The new game owes its roots to a college friend, Ms. June Knopf (pronounced, K'noff). June amused all of her college friends with this trick. She'd pick up the phone, call a restaurant, and when the hostess answered the phone, she'd say, "Hi, this is June Knopf. My brother is eating at your restaurant and I need to speak to him. Could you please page him? His name is Jack." The hostess would always agree and then would ask for the last name (spelling and pronounciation) before making the page: "Is there a Jack Knopf in the restaurant? You have a phone call at the front desk." As the hostess was making the announcement, June would hold out the phone so we could all listen. We'd laugh like we were in grade school, no doubt forgetting that we were in college and this joke probably shouldn't have been funny to us, especially because it was so – immature – (Bots holds her breath, clinches her jaw, and rolls her eyes!). In any event, that was the beginning of the Belvediere's restaurant game and in honor of June Knopf, I'll call the game "A Jack Knopf Name Game!" (HH thinks the game should be called A Wayne Knopf Name Game, but this isn't HH's blog! He can play Wayne Knopf on his own time.)

So, how is the game played? Well, the most important aspect of the game is the number in the party, the players. In the case of the Belvediere's, that number is five because there are five Belvedieres. The game is played at a restaurant, or any other place where the game players might leave their name. (I believe I already said this.) Each game player gets one shot at playing and the "category" must be decided upon before any of the members start playing. Each player gets to invent a name to give to the hostess within the chosen category. After each player has had an opportunity to select a name, all players vote on the best name. The person with the most votes wins. Confused? Here's an example of last weekend's first round of A Jack Knopf Name Game:

The category was music. The Belvediere's, on a trip to Minneapolis, chose Maggiano's restaurant to play their first round (I knew there would be a wait). As the game's inventor, I took (bullied my way into) the first round. I walked up to the hostess and smiled at her. She said, "How many in your party?" I replied, "five."
"Name?"
"Yes, the name is Jackson. J-A-C-K-S-O-N."
"Smoking or non?"
"Non, please"
"It will be about a 20 to 30 minute wait."
"Great. Thanks"
When I walked back to the rest of the Belvedieres, they were all giggling. (They're a giggly bunch...well, all except HH who doesn't giggle very much, but at least he tolerates the rest of us!)
For the next twenty minutes (a very long twenty minutes), we stood in the bar area of the restaurant anticipating the page. Then, as if they were announcing the individual players on a high school hockey team at the championship game, we heard:
"The Jackson party of 5, your table is now available. The Jackson party of 5!"
Oh yeah, it was a huge score for this team member! I received high fives (all puns intended) from my fellow players and we all did a little Michael with the white glove dance (a little spinning and a little moon walking). For a moment I broke into my own rendition of "A-B-C," but stopped because I didn't feel it was good sports-person-ship to gloat! I'm also painfully aware that my vocal cords don't produce noises that sound like they belong in songs.

So, there it is. The first round of A Jack Knopf Name Game has been played. Who knows what names will be played in future rounds?! I would guess that there might be Maroon 5 or Five for Fighting, but it won't be up to me. I've already played my round and it was "Off the Wall" and "Thrill"-ing. If you don't believe me, "Beat It."
Okay, I'll stop now.

Drowning...

2006-02-26T21:35:00.000-06:00

She had brilliant ideas for her 40th birthday blog; trust me. However, as the big day appoached, she found herself drowning in a sea of research. (It wasn't a sea. It's was an ocean. It is still an ocean!) She managed to fight the current and – kicking with all her might – surfaced for a moment to greet the day, eat a cupcake, talk to family, and graciously accept the "over the hill" jokes that she never found funny, even in her youth. If you're envisioning some Margaret Atwood version of *Surfacing* here, you can forget any connection! Our drowner didn't have any brilliant ideas about drowning, and yet because of the drowning, she couldn't write brilliant ideas about the 40th birthday. I digress. As the day passed, she felt the ropes of research (the weeds?) grab her ankles and pull her back into the dark – and very murky – waters. Who knows what she'll see down there and who knows when she'll surface again. Keep checking in...

New Players in Fitness Center Bingo

2006-02-18T12:50:00.000-06:00

Well, before today's additions, the Fitness Center Bingo players were:
Tard, Wayne, and Thumper. Then, Target was added (secretly by me!), Mr. California (Thumper's love interest), and Crying Game. Today, we have three more players. Soon the game will be ready to play.
The new players added today:
G.I. Jesus (looks like a G.I. but dons t-shirts that announce he is only in Jesus' army), Mr. and Mrs. Towel (Thirsty and Lovely - they cover their equipment with their towels), and Buttons (the 300 lb., middle aged weight lifter/tanner who hits on HH) I told you HH was handsome!