Surviving winter the virtuous way

Winter in Minnesota is well known for icy roads, below zero temperatures with wind chill factors and snow. It is a season that one must prepare for. Matches to mittens need to be found. Red wool dress coat must be tried on to ensure the buttons still go over one’s belly. Air pressure in tires must be checked (on the car, not one’s belly). I do these things every year as part of my survival preparation. It is routine. It is all part of life in a state that has seasons.

It never fails, though, that I will forget to stock up on Static Guard and Chapstick because I fail to remember winter in Minnesota is DRY. Every surface I touch gives me a jolt. My hair takes on a life of its own unless I load it down with Bed Head Manipulator. And my lips glow red and threaten to crack when I open my mouth (which is quite often). After about a week of saying, “I should really get some Chapstick”, I buy the first of several tubes that will end up in the bottom of my purse, my desk drawer at work or in the lint catch in the dryer.

My latest tube of chap repellent… a gift courtesy of Queenie’s sense of humor:



If you look closely you can see that it is Lookin’ Good For Jesus lip balm in virtuous vanilla flavor. The picture is a little grainy but you can tell it is good stuff by the cross on the front. I love this new lip balm. It has a nutty vanilla flavor. It is not too greasy. It comes in a beautifully decorated tube to coordinate with many outfits. Oh, and it also helps me to restore my lips to “near virgin quality”.

Catchy packaging too...




In my search to find this package, I was delighted to stumble across the mirror. How utterly delicious!

Disclaimer: I have no loyalty to the brand names of the aforementioned products. I generally call all lip balms Chapstick. I also call all facial tissues Kleenex. As for Static Guard and Bed Head Manipulator, I will use generic if it’s available…a little trick I learned from my pharmacist.

A Study of 3 Sisters

It has been said about my sisters and I that we have our own language. We have even been asked by certain family members to speak this language on command. I don’t see how we could since it is not a conscious act. I am sure it has to do with the wonderful understanding Beaner, Queenie and I have of each other’s quirkiness. We can finish sentences and know each other well enough to communicate without full words. It is just something that we have between us. I think that all siblings have their own language. I would even dare to take it a step further and say that there is a unique culture in sibling relationships.

Our culture is made up of traditions, strange habits and utter silliness. It is molded from a history of being just about all each other had in many situations. It is from being 3 girls primarily raised by a mom who liked to write, read romance novels and never watched sports. It is from playing Barbies for hours in our room that was usually transformed into a Barbie village. It is from struggling to be quiet in the backseat while the adults were talking up front.

Behold examples of sister culture… reader beware.

Before each movie in a theater, Queenie leans over to whisper, “Good Luck”. I’d like to know when this started. And why do I wait with bated breath to hear it? In fact, I can’t imagine a movie without this. I don’t even want to think about what would happen if she didn’t say it. Would I not enjoy the movie, would I choke on a popcorn seed? No, I will not go to that dark place. Queenie, if you are reading this, do not stop saying it EVER. Do not play with the cosmos that way.

Speaking of movies…when did Shag become our favorite? When did we start watching it as therapy? We can watch this over and over and never tire of it. Why does every quote from that movie fit into our daily lives and why do they spout out of our mouths spontaneously when we are together?

Stuff: “Are you drunk?”

Beaner: “I only had half a beer. A beer and a half.”

Then there is the signal. For as long as I can remember, I knew instinctively to look down at my boobs whenever one of my sisters rubbed their noses. The nose rub signal can mean one or more of the following:

The cups runneth over
It is very cold outside
The extra fat pocket that resides between your boobs and your arm is exposed
Your cleavage is threatening to spill out of your bathing suit
Or simply that something is amuck with your boob area

This signal has helped to avoid some major teenage angst and I just know it will make an appearance at all of our weddings.

There are certain words and phrases that we share that spark memories and are complete nonsense to everyone around us. I know if I said, “tuna fish omelet” to either of my sisters, uncontrollable laughter will ensue as they remember Dad’s cuisine in his bachelor days. Memories of a scary neighbor will pop into their heads if they hear, “scuz”. A little bit of anxiety will creep in if I say, “get off my grass”. Then, “A Tough Midnight Run”, will cause a bittersweet tug at their heartstrings as they are reminded of the black fur ball known to others as “Tuffy”.

No matter how old I become or the miles between these goons and I, we will always have this cheesy bond. Others may try to understand...but they never will.

I am a sucker for delicious words.

In front of me right now is a calendar full of fabulous pictures of Albert Einstein. I didn't purchase it because I am pretending to be cerebral in any way. I bought it for the quote that was on the front cover and the glorious 75% off sign above it. I am a sucker for words and for sales. The quote on the cover as well as the one I can enjoy for at least 2 more days of January is:

“I lived in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.”

DELICIOUS. What a wonderful adjective. It makes me feel fulfilled and content when I hear it. It harkens memories of fresh bread and chocolate. When it is used in correlation with anything other than food, I get all excited. So, when I read this I got all keyed up and plunked down the $3.95.

I bought this because of that one word. Now, as I read the word strung together with the other ones, I actually appreciate it as a quote. It is painful to be alone when you feel like you are that way because you have no friends. It is entirely different when you choose to be alone. I just got that. There is probably a collective, “duh” being shouted from all of you reading this. I am a little slow, plus he threw me off with his use of that amazing adjective. I don’t think I am in the delicious years of my maturity, yet I barely feel young. I am stranded somewhere in the middle. I think I enjoy my solitude in bits.

Thanks Mr. Einstein for making me think and for your hair which is absolutely delicious.

Follow the yellow brick road all the way to the MOA

The Mall of America has over 500 stores, over 100 food places and its own amusement park all under its roof. A consumer’s paradise. Before moving to Minnesota, I admit I was intrigued by this shopping haven. It was a trip that the women in my family would make annually to do holiday shopping (wait, did I just go all pc?) and once in awhile I would tag along. I was lured in by its tourist attraction quality and became a greedy shopper at specialty stores: A whole store dedicated to socks. A boutique that sold just purses (small town gal, remember). A store for the Olympics. It also didn’t hurt that when I over indulged I didn’t pay taxes on clothes. It was massive. It was impressive. It was a 4 hour drive away and I could stay in a hotel. It was pretty much the coolest place that I bragged to all my friends about because I had an actual latte at Starbucks there.

Now that I am a resident…

I loathe the MOA (yeah, I call it that now). Let me explain. I enjoy shopping, but not with a bazillion people. I enjoy the variety of stores, but not the 7.75 miles I have to walk between each one. I enjoy eating campy mall food, but not while looking over LegoLand that has not been dusted in 5 years. I enjoy the convenience of attached parking ramps, but not the 3 hours it takes circling them to find a spot.

I actually worked there for about 6 months and that may have something to do with the terrible taste it has left in my mouth. Lane Bryant was my employer. It was the 2nd largest store in the company, both in volume and in space. We were only one of 3 LB stores to have actual size 14 mannequins. Both of these facts are forever burned into my brain. It was a long six months that saw many things and solidified my need to get out of retail.

Once in awhile there are some amusing events in the rotunda and I will stop to watch while sipping my café Americano (lattes are complete crap to my sophisticated coffee pallet now). It is usually a kicky dance competition or a chance meeting of the cast of A Prairie Home Companion. But there are some things that lure Queenie and I there because they appeal to our quest for “adventure”. For example, we crowded around the Starting Over life coaches to gain wisdom and an autograph during one of our self improvement phases. And one time we did this:

It began innocently enough. Queenie read somewhere that there was going to be a display of movie memorabilia complete with interactive displays and trivia contests. It sounded right up our dorky ally. We walked among old scripts with director’s notes scrawled across them, costumes from obscure films, and some ancient camera equipment that fed Queenie’s soul. There was a photographer there that could take your picture in front of a green screen and insert it into a variety of movie scenes. This was free, but you had to stand in line for about 2 hours. You could choose from Casablanca, Gone With The Wind, Wizard of Oz etc. I chose Tinman (yeah, that's my adorable face) instead of Dorothy because Dorothy was a little too unrealistic what with her tiny waistline and all. Besides, my face was pretty shiny that day and I felt like the oil can had done a number on my t-zone.

"Oz never did give nothin' to the Tinman that he didn't, didn't already have..."

Queenie chose a still from Casablanca. I can’t post it here for fear of a horse’s head in my bed, but I will tell you Ingrid Bergman’s breasts and my well endowed sister’s breasts do not under any circumstances match up and the photo did not turn out. After standing in line for 2 hours and seeing how good my beautiful mug looked on the Tinman’s body, Q was all prepared to stand in front of the green screen with her cleavage enhancing tank top. She was instructed to stand a certain way so that Ingrid’s body and Humphrey’s arms can be formed around her in that famous “goodbye scene”. I am not sure if the pimply-faced- I am just doin’ this gig to pay for college – kid photographer anticipated a chest the likes of Queenie’s. And I am not sure he even noticed that when the photo spit out of the printer her breasts looked like alien life forms were taking over poor Ingrid Bergman’s sophisticated blazer. Her face however looked fabulous.

I Hearted Bad Boys in the 80s... Don't Tell Michael J. Fox

Hey John Hughes, thanks for the Breakfast Club and the following brilliant nuggets!! I will quote them til I die. I will pass their wisdom to my children and always remember the criminal who brought them to life...

"Screws fall out all the time, the world is an imperfect place."

"Hey, how come Andrew gets to get up? If he gets up, we'll all get up, it'll be anarchy."

"My impression of life at Big Bri's house, "Son?" "Yeah, Dad?" "How was your day, son?" "Great, Dad. How's yours?" "Super. Say, how would like to go fishing this weekend?" "Great, Dad. But I got homework to do." "That's okay, son. You can do it on the boat." "Gee." "Hon, isn't our son swell?" "Yes, dear. Isn't life swell?"

When my friends were swooning over Kirk Cameron or Jake Ryan, I secretly had eyes for John Bender. His sarcasm and bad boy image were so not my type and still aren't, but I used to get butterflies in my tummy during the kiss in the closet scene between him and Claire. I would reenact that in my mind over and over. I loved being the rich, popular Prom queen in this scenario going against my parents, my friends and society to kiss Judd Nelson and give him my diamond earring. I would pretend to blush when he made jokes about testicles. He would be the boy my snooty friends loved to hate.

Don't you forget about me John Bender... now, raise your fist to the air for the still shot that is emblazoned in my memories. You Bad Ass!

Another thing that makes me a dork...

Hello, my name is Stuff and I am a movieaholic.

Hi Stuff.

It's not just the films. It is the theater itself. I crave the smell... my nose is treated to the aroma of the popcorn as soon as I hand my ticket to the pimply faced usher. They obviously have the popper pumping the glorious scent through the heating ducts. The bouquet of fresh popcorn and butter flavoring is just too much. And when I shovel massive handfuls of it into my mouth, my senses go into overload.

Recently my home away from home...er... local cinema has raised its prices an entire dollar. My habit is starting to get quite pricey and I am always on the look out for ways to get my fix. I have been known to wear my ratty old college sweatshirt and put my hair in a ponytail in hopes that I am asked if I am a student. This saves me 3 whole dollars and gives me a nice boost to the ego. I am also a proud carrier of the Regal Crown Club Card This wasn't a hard decision for me... it kinda went like this:

Cinema Kid: "Will you be using your Regal Crown Card?"

Me: "Regal Crown Card?"

Cinema Kid: "It is free to join. Every time you use it, you earn points towards free movie tickets, popcorn and soda. There is free popcorn on Tuesdays. Thursdays are double point days."

Me: "Sniffle...you had me at free popcorn...sniffle"

Since I have this love for movies, I have become the Siskel and Ebert of my office suite. It is a role I take very seriously and feel it is my duty to give in to my addiction to movies so that others can benefit. I hope you will understand.

Given that it is nearing the Oscars and I have already laughed, cried and jeered through the Golden Globes... here are my picks for the wins:

These are what they call the 'important' ones...

Best movie: Little Miss Sunshine
Best Actor: Forest Whitaker
Best Actress: Helen Mirren
Best Supporting Actor: Eddie Murphy... I wish Alan Arkin here, but I think it is Murphy's time
Best Supporting Actress: Jennifer Hudson
Best Director: Martin Scorsese

I will be watching this February 25th. I will probably cry when Jennifer Hudson wins. I will be an absolute dork during it.... most likely will drink wine and eat fancy hors d'oeuvres with Q. I will be catty about the dresses. I will roll my eyes at Joan Rivers and laugh at Ellen DeGeneres.

Old Hats 12/06

Another cop out on blogging... this is part two from my inner dork. We were totally into the hat thing again and even included Beaner's guest whom I will call J. J was such a trooper and didn't even mind the cheese that is our family. (Hey Beaner... this one's a keeper)

Queenie has not given me a picture yet. Dork.

The crude table was thrown together again for the rematch...the crates a little more worn, the wood showing the scars of the year that passed.

Big Easy reprised his role of hosting this group of miscreants. It was a task he took very seriously, bringing out his most prized pickled fish and putting in his best orbital prosthesis. This year they would have a new game, but true to form, the gruff scalawag didn’t show nerves. He relied on his near half decade of living and rose easily to the challenge.

To his left sat Mittens whose habit of stealing translated this year into Backward Betty’s stump and coveted spot. She sat perched on her prize, daring anyone to cross her. The time that passed since their last game was spent honing her skills and she was ready to be the victor. The multicolored cap atop her head made the others question her sanity, but this was all part of her plan.

Next to her Backward Betty smacked incessantly on chewing gum, her new vice. Lacking the security of the cigarette she once held, she clutched a glass of beer made from roots and pulled out a pocket dictionary every so often to throw out a big word or two. This year she donned a pair of fur lined shoes and the others couldn’t help but show their jealousy.


Saving Private Sarah’s eyes had a new sparkle to them. The azure hue was seldom seen due to her habit of keeping her head down, but this year they were open and alert. There was a story waiting to be told and the others were thrown by it. Her interest was solely on the stranger that sat to her left. They communicated silently and seemed a tad too chummy. Feed prices were on the rise again, but would she have the guts to bilk the others out of the pot?

Jay Bogart was a tall drink of water with a quiet demeanor that made everyone a little leery. He sat close to Saving Private Sarah who introduced him as her feed salesman. His look was of someone who dabbled in all things shady and it was apparent he was brought to help secure a win.

Old Hats 12/05

Traditionally there are 4 separate Christmas celebrations in my family. One with Mom. One with Dad. One with Mom's side. One with Dad's side. The perks of a broken home. This usually works in my favor, so it never seemed out of the ordinary. Besides, statistically I am in the majority.

In 2005, our celebration with Dad included a game of poker. Dad raided Drew's hat collection and we all chose our favorites. It is always painfully obvious that he is missing from our celebrations, but that year his memory started becoming a part of things. I am a big dork when it comes to memories and I was inspired to document this bit of cheese. Queenie provided the artwork... she is a dork too.

They all sat around the makeshift table…a couple of crates supporting an old piece of wood.

There was Big Easy, the surly looking one who did not make eye contact very often, for when he did the shine off his glass eye would send a chill up your spine. He was the eldest of the bunch having seen many things in his lifetime – things that would make an ordinary man turn tale and run. He played this game of chance before and he was obviously the favorite to take home the pot.

To his left, perched on an old stump, was Backward Betty. She worried about appearing insecure, so she overcompensated with her patronizing laugh and the money she carelessly threw onto the table. She lit a long cigarette (to appear fancy), and held it until it burned down to a stump. The smoke added to the ambiance, but did nothing for her image.

Mittens was there – a young punk with something to prove. Her name was given to her in the joint (UWSP) because of her habit of lifting items from bars on the seedy side of town. She could take home all of the winnings… but would she be too headstrong?

Sitting next to Mittens was SPS (Saving Private Sarah). She sat with her head down – her tell was the big blue piercing eyes, the windows to her heart. She had the most riding on this game. She was supporting a farm of unicorns in the valley and the price of feed just went up.

The hats inspired the names and we actually called each other them that night. I love it when a spark of light comes back to our family, even if it comes in the form of utter dorkiness.

Beaner and Queenie... who could ask for anything more?

Stuff, Beaner, Queenie.

32, 29, 28.

nostril-less, average nostrosity, flared

big mouth, big eyes, big ideas

loves to write, loves to draw, loves to create

It was autum. Beaner was in town. We had wine. Stuff had on the wool sweater... of course. Beaner was in a hoodie... what else? Queenie had on...well, I am not sure. Wine was involved.

Lord help the mister that comes between me and my sisters. And Lord help the sister that comes between me and my Shiraz... Or something like that.

I love those two chicks!

Just So You Know

I said I wasn’t going to do it. I swore I would not succumb. I made a promise to my sanity that this year I wouldn’t put my brain through it. I was weak. I was bored. Hell, I was too lazy to find the remote and now I am smack in the middle of the 80 millionth season of "American Idol". It is the first few episodes of the season, the ones that showcase those poor souls that believe with all their hearts that they are the best talent in America. Like a train wreck or a car accident, I feel I need to gawk. I feel myself getting sucked into this vacuum of talent seeking misery…again.

I am choosing this forum to state here and now that I will do what I do every year. I will be a closet American Idol fan. I will watch week after week and only comment about my favorites when commented to. If others’ noses are in the air smugly talking down about the crazy people who watch the show, I will haughtily laugh with them. I will vow to vote only when the contestant makes the little tiny hairs stand up on my arms. And I will never say the word ‘Dawg’ outside of the confines of my home. This I swear as Paula is my witness.

Now that I have that out of my system...

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I feel I need to clear up my previous post. I wrote it on Tuesday. I was drinking on Tuesday. I lost my internet connection on Tuesday. I was too snuggled into my bed to go into the living room to ‘plug in’ on Tuesday. So, I posted it this am…at work. Since I am a novice with this whole blogging world, I can’t figure out how (if I even am able to) change the date. True I was drinking, but I did know what day it was…and what time. Truly I did…I think…maybe.

Now that I have that out of my system…

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It has been brought to my attention recently that I mention my cat a lot. I have only one thing to say about that…

… I am in love with him. I will never allow another cat into my home. If he should ever die, I will not replace him (nor will I have him freeze-dried). Also, he is not a child, boyfriend or a human…I know that. He is my pal though and I’ll poke you in the eye if you pick on his weight. He is very sensitive about his weight.

Now that I have that out of my system…

Libations and My Big Mouth

10:30pm on a school night... oh how I wish sometimes that I was defiantly sitting with my laptop perched on top of my legs in my Carebear footy pajamas, under a blanket while my mom watches “Knots Landing” in the living room. But, alas it is not a school night for me and I am sitting in my sweats with my laptop on a pillow resting on my legs which are lazily sprawled out in the bed that I share with my cat. Leno is threatening to take over the 13’’ of TV screen that is across the room and I am waiting for the Advil to kick in so that I don’t wake up with a hangover.

We had our annual state of the biz meeting today at work and after we were treated to wine and fine finger treats while standing around rented tables with plastic table cloths. So, I am feeling the 4 glasses I decided to down while mingling with board members and various staff. When will I realize that my usually loud voice only increases in decibels as the wine courses through my system? When will I realize that when the Founder and Executive Director (F.E.D) asks me to stay for another drink it only means that I will show my true (and loud) colors, inevitably embarrassing myself.


The shindig was pretty much wrapped up around 7pm. A handful of die-hards were milling around starting to put on jackets and pack up their sorry asses to get home when she played the “let’s sit down and have a beer” card. Not one to pass up free libations, I sat amongst the other freeloaders to have a tête-à-tête and a Lineys. We laughed about little bits of the meeting held earlier and how Volunteer Coordinator and I disrupted the meeting with our version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”. I also spun some random yarn about curling. In the middle of roaring out the story complete with hand gestures, I noticed that FED was wincing in pain and giving me the “shh shh” pantomime with her pursed lips telling me to keep it down. So, I switched to my indoor voice… only for a couple of sentences though, cuz you can’t keep a good story down especially when the narrator mixes wine and beer!

Oh well. Good times.

Writing this, I am finding it hard to concentrate. No, not because of the wine. I am hearing my neighbors begin their nightly “discussion”…

F***ing Whore: “Why do you always go there, Lazy A**hole?”

Lazy A**hole: “You make me so crazy, F***ing Whore! I wish you would leave me alone!”

F***ing Whore: “You couldn’t live without me! You are so {inaudible}”

I have lived in my apartment for 2 years and have heard nary a peep from the other side of the wall until about a month ago. I am sure F.W. and L.A. are simply running their lines for some artsy production of Romeo and Juliet, but honestly do they have to do this at 10:30pm on a school night?

I chose to write this as the first entry?

“I am going to officially start this blog today!” she says out loud to her cat that is perched on his favorite spot over her shoulder. Groaning both to show he doesn’t care and to acknowledge she is talking to him, he turns his head and resumes his nap.

Let’s see…. I wanted to sound so educated, witty, lovable, sarcastic yet charming and most importantly in control of my life on this first entry that I over thought it and it turned into an entry 2 weeks in the making. Why do I do this? Why do I choose to analyze everything I say to the point that it loses its bones and becomes an undecipherable pile of word vomit turning everyone off? Who cares if I make them laugh… or worse yet, don’t make them laugh? Who cares if I piss off someone when I over use ellipses? Who cares?

Now that my neurosis is out in the open… I shall begin. Recently the author of this bit of text has turned 32. I am not sure what that means to me yet. I haven’t gotten to that age where I want to hide it, but I certainly don’t like to embrace it. I am pretty sure I went through my major age crisis/meltdown around my 29th birthday, so at least I got that out of the way. I hated turning 29. I didn’t like that it was my last year as a 20 – something. And I especially didn’t like that my actual 29 self was nothing like the 29 self I pictured as a teen. Where were the husband, journalism career and 2.5 kids, dog and minivan? I was single working in retail management, living with a cat and driving a Jeep on its last leg. That wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst of it all was the future I was working toward. I was plopped right in the middle of the Snow Belt thanks to a transfer and my pesky way of being good at my job (damn, why did I have to be so cute in my blue collar?). In the retail world small towns that are far removed from larger ones are perfect places to put your store and tend to do the most volume. This Upper Michigan store (that shall remain nameless) needed an assistant manager and I was a good candidate. Being the naïve, yet career minded gal that I was, I jumped at the chance to show what I could do with a higher volume store. I said goodbye to family, friends and life and headed NORTH to trade in my old dreams for this new one. This was October in my 26th year.

I stayed in that small town for a little over 2 years. My days consumed with work. My nights consumed with work. True, I did make some new friends and I picked up some snow inspired hobbies, but I was more interested in working toward what I had adopted as my new dream. My dream of managing my very own prized store. Did I mention I was naïve? Did I mention that I thought I looked incredible in a blue collar? Then, when the sand was about to run out in my 20’s hourglass, there was talk about my substitute dream coming true.

In another small U. P. town there was another high volume store with another substitute life waiting for me to take it on. This was the end of my 28th year and the beginning of my meltdown and what I like to call my 1/3 life crisis. Now, without being too dramatic and for the interest of time… I am going to sum up what happens next.

I quit retail hell.

There are many other factors that contributed to this and I look forward to sifting through them and relaying them with a bit of sarcasm and word vomit.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Resolutions and 2007
It is 2007. What does the change of year actually mean? New beginnings? Another year older? Increased sales in treadmills, Stairmasters and scales? Cursing yourself for the first 10 days because you have written the wrong date on your check? Resolutions to do things that you have promised to do every year since 1993?

I know that the very thought of me resolving to do anything for a whole year is absurd and it may come to bite me in the ass later, but I am resolving to:

Create and maintain a real, grown-up blog. What can I say…? I love the pats on the back flab that I receive when I pour my heart out and I need to feed my addiction.

At the very least make an effort to do one or more of the following past resolutions… lose weight, get finances in order, call my family more, find a man, join something, and de-clutter my closet.

Make an effort to stop gossiping at work. Make an effort sounds like a cop out, but I know myself too well to say 'stop' all together. Plus I love to talk and sometimes the gossipy goodness that goes on is the only topic.

Visit one new place per week. The only qualifications being that said place need be in Minneapolis or St. Paul. I am looking forward to this one and kind of think myself brilliant for coming up with it.

Learn to play my guitar. I have never put this into print before, but have always wanted to really use it for more than mere decoration. I have dreams of campfire sing-alongs and impromptu concerts for the pond dwellers off my balcony.

Monday, December 18, 2006
Alfred Street and 12/25

The jingling of the sleigh bells when the patio door opens and closes. Hand prints of every size and shape draping the windows.

The aroma of burning logs and subtle musk cologne mixed with cookies and a hint of "basement". Brown marbled shag covering the floors.

Warm hugs as you bury your nose into soft cheeks to take in her familiar scent, inevitably tangling the bows of your glasses together causing laughter and more hugs.

A sweatshirt with a cardinal, a denim shirt and leggings, a holiday sweater and slacks. Puffy slippers. Snowflake earings.

The best wooden rocking chair in the corner. Perfect for 5 year old Stephanie to put her legs through the back until an adult notices and perfect for an older Stephanie to snuggle with a cousin or baby brother on her lap.

The shutter doors reminiscent of a saloon leading to the kitchen. The coffee table propped on its side over the stairs blocking a potential fall.

The veritable playground down the stairs that saw hours of mischief and laughter. Each room filled with character; the benches along the wall with the green cushion, the nook with the beaded curtain, the game closet. Frightening picture on the far wall causing your heart to leap as you turn off the light and run upstairs.

Anis candy in every dish glistening like rubies in their clear, red cellophane wrappers.

Nuts still in their shells in the round wooden nut bowl. A metal cracker and 2 metal picks residing in their homes in the middle. Piles of discarded shells falling everywhere and blending with the shag carpeting.

Stockings on the mantle each one with a name written in glitter. Inside... an orange, some nuts, an ornament and a surprise.

An old tattered copy of Twas The Night Before Christmas sitting on the piano bench. The top cut out in the shape of Santa's hat.

Relish tray, bread in the bread dome and water from the silver pitcher as we all crowd around the table. Three kids sitting on a green piano bench.

Santa in the Kitchen, Angels and Nativity in the Dining Room, Trees in the Living Room.

How did her tree turn out so perfect? Each ornament belonging together even though they were acquired at different times and all had a precious memory attached.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Parker Street and 12/24
The car slides a bit as we turn the corner onto Parker Street. I can see the lights in the window and all the cars crowded into the little space that the plow cleared in the driveway. More cars equal more presents I think to myself as I eagerly put my mittens back on and prepare for the cold. Familiar figures greet me at the door and I am devoured into a sea of hugs and 'sugars'. A treasured face seeks me out of this crowd and says, "Come to Grandma". Her cigarette is distinguished and her two free hands envelope me into a cocoon of familiar smells. Her soft cheek brushes mine. She removes my coat and instructs me to take it into Grandma and Grandpa's room and put it on the bed (because that's where the coats go!).

Muffled laughter and the voice of my favorite teenager cause me to pause as I pass the door to the upstairs. I spy the stretched cord from the telephone on the wall that is straining to make its way into the stairwell and I know who is in there. My little hand taps on the door and I stand tiptoe to reach the knob. The door creeps open and the scent of Jovan Musk fills my nose. A perfectly white smile invites me to climb the couple of stairs to where she is. I snuggle into her lap. A can of Diet Pepsi sits next to her and I sneak a sip while she continues to gossip.

Laughter and commotion catch my attention and I decide to investigate. Climbing down the stairs, my tights snag on one of the many nails peaking out from the paneling. "DaffyNeice!" I hear when the door opens. I stifle a giggle as I watch a wrestling match ensuing in the living room between two crazy boys in their teens. The comment is repeated, "DaffyNeice!" as he pins his little brother in a magnificent headlock. A tattooed man with twinkling eyes steps in and threatens the belt. His hair is unruly and his voice is full of laughter. He bends over and gives me a peck on the cheek.

I throw my coat up and it lands on top of the mound. I then make my way to the best place in the whole room… the foot of the bed where the toys are kept. I select the dog on a string and command it to follow, its red plastic tongue wagging behind me. The perfect spot in the living room is still unoccupied and I run to it with fervor. The warm gusts of air from the vent in the side of the wall blow out at me causing my hair to stand up.

Soon I am joined by my pal and we pick up our conversation from where we left off like no time has passed. We sit surrounded by chattering adults and an occasional cry or babble from a baby. Once in a while a word that we aren't supposed to hear escapes the crowd and makes us titter with eyes wide. The usual grown ups stand out in the dining room. We see them through the clever cut out in the wall. Draped over their heads, a garland made of plastic candy. They are splitting their attention between the happenings in the living room and whatever game of cards being played in the dining room.

My pal and I are oblivious to most of what is going on. We are too busy eying up the mountain of loot trailing from under the tree. Having been briefed by our parents on the virtues of being patient and not wanting to push our luck, we ask "when are we eating?" This is our trick. We know that after eating comes opening presents. The usual feast which always includes canned peas and bread and butter is devoured. The adults make a little assembly line in the kitchen doing the dishes in the split sink, one area for washing the other with hot water for rinsing.

We wait for the sign. And here she comes… the familiar sweatshirt, the familiar peach colored glasses, the familiar perm under the familiar hat borrowed from Santa. She winks in our direction, probably to push up her glasses, but to me it was the signal. She crawls around picking up prize after prize and handing them out. Most of them landing in a delicious pile in front of my cohort and I. Flashes from cameras go off threatening blindness, but we tear open each parcel and shriek with glee imagining the hours and hours of play each one will provide. When it seems like we are at the end, the Santa hatted angel crawls deep behind the tree and retrieves even more red and green donned packages.

Our cheeks are rosy with happiness and we sit like pharaohs in the midst of our treasure. Pausing only for a moment to catch our breaths and perhaps change into the new p.j.'s handmade with love by a generous relative. Toys, balls of wrapping paper, children, discarded socks and shoes all mingle together on the floor creating a blissful maze for us. Hours of playing, investigating and comparing keep us awake with excitement until the dreaded words are said, "ok, time to go home." A flurry of packing erupts as they struggle to get our new loot into giant orange Fleet Farm bags and into the car.

In the middle of it all, I find an afghan made with a crochet hook and several shades of brown. The fibers are infused with the smells of this house on Parker Street and curling up in it makes me instantly fall asleep. I wake up later still cocooned in the afghan but in the backseat of the car surrounded by presents and sleeping siblings.

Thursday, November 30, 2006
Dreams and Coffee Tables
It has always been a daydream of mine to put together a coffee table book. I love the idea of a book that begs you to pick it up and flip through its pages. I picture it being ideal for the nervous young man sitting on the edge of the sofa trying hard to keep his perfect posture as he waits for his date. He could pick up my book and pretend to read with interest all the while avoiding the eye contact of his date's surly looking father. It would also serve as a splendid way to spark conversation when you have guests that aren't real chatty, or if you really need to change the subject because a heated political or religious debate was ensuing. You could open it up to any one of its pages and start your discussion anew.

Why a coffee table book? Why not a novel? Well… while I love to write, I don't like pressure. The pressure to have a flowing bit of text that has to last for at least 100 pages is just too exhausting to even think about. I honestly can't imagine scraping out enough ideas from the recesses of my mind to go on for that long. Even if I did, would any body want to read it? With a coffee table book I can vomit forth bits of creativity, combine it with stimulating pictures and call it art. Pressure's off.

My book would have delicious colors on the front that both complemented and added to any décor. It would be timeless. It wouldn't fall victim to fad. It wouldn't end up like all other coffee table books resorted to holding up wobbly furniture or fodder for the garage sale circuit. I once had this Ansel Adams coffee table book because everyone was into him in the 90s. It now lives on the bottom shelf of my nightstand gathering dust with my 1975 encyclopedia and my journal that was started in '99 and still has many blank pages scattered throughout because I choose to write in it only at random. My book will be of interest to all.

Several ideas for the subject swim around my head. My favorite being a collection of lyrics. What? Has she gone mental? She can't mean lyrics, it's already been done. Oh, but wait… this compilation will be of interesting, off the wall lyrics. You will be exposed to "chicken in the bread pan pickin' out the dough", "put 'em in your pantry with your cupcakes", "swim like lions through the crest and bathe yourself in zebra flesh" and since no respectable book would complete with out it, "Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind. Anytime". You could come to my book open it to any page and on it will be a brilliant depiction of the lyric, an explanation of the meaning and of course the lyric itself. I guess… "you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one."

Monday, November 27, 2006
Weddings and Funerals

There have been too many times where my life can be described as a rollercoaster. I wrote about a couple of instances and found them recently cleaning out some old files. Friendly disclaimer to my sisters: one will make you laugh… one will make you cry (sorry pals).

On buying a dress: I went from a blissful state of sleep, the kind where your hands are soaked with drool; your pillow has left its creases on the folds of your cheek and Vince Vaughn has just proposed marriage
-to-
Flipping off the intrusive alarm clock that turned Vince's head into a foghorn just when he was about to kiss me
-to-
Hitting the snooze button thus squelching the alarm for the idiotic 9 minute length of time the geniuses at the alarm clock company seem to think will do
-to-
Getting back to blissful 9 minute slumber… this time Vince is a pirate
-to-
His head turning into a foghorn again
-to-
Being annoyed at having to face the dull reality of my morning routine
-to-
Coming alive in the shower as an orgasmic rush of hot water falls over my head and the scent of my coconut milk and honey shower gel harkens memories of vacations in Hawaii (insert hints of sarcasm)
-to-
Smelling the latest 'gift' left by Static in the litter box… bury your crap young man!
-to-
Pushing my rolls into some hugger me tummies and a balconette while trying to avoid looking directly into the mirror.
-to-
Being elated that I am actually having a good hair day
-to-
Getting toothpaste on my shirt
-to-
Struggling to find a replacement shirt that meets the standard requirements for comfort, roll hiding and eye complimenting color
-to-
Meeting the rain as Shannon and I run to the car
-to-
Belting out every word to Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard
-to-
Sobbing out every word to She Talks to Angels
-to-
Politely (and in a quiet concerned tone) reminding Shannon to look out for a car that is threatening to cut us off (Shannon may describe this differently)
-to-
Arguing with Shannon
-to-
Frustration over driving around and around looking for a spot to park
-to-
Elation over finding a perfect spot near the door…sorry handicapped people (just kidding)
-to-
Hives building up at the prospect of going into a mall and running through the rain
-to-
Nerve calming bliss as a cup of Caribou Americana warms my hands and throat
-to-
Getting coffee on my shirt
-to-
Utter disgust at each glimpse of each outfit in each store in each 360 degree mirror in each poorly lit dressing room
-to-
Over exaggerating my gut so that Shannon can see how bad each dress really looks
-to-
Laughing at Shannon's Chris Farley doing the jig impersonation
-to-
Being excited over the perfect purple capris Shannon found
-to-
Being proud that I didn't buy a pair of white capris that I didn't need for the occasion we were shopping for
-to-
Being remorseful over the tanks I did buy that I didn't need for the occasion we were shopping for
-to-
Leaving the mall without a dress for the wedding of a YOUNGER cousin and feeling like a failure -to-
Laughing in the dark at the movie
-to-
Devouring monster handfuls of popcorn
-to-
Getting butter on my shirt
-to-
Chatting the movie up on the way home feeling all scholarly as point after point uses big words
-to-
Anticipation for a night with pirates and Vince Vaughn


I went to Wisconsin in late 2005 for my stepbrother's funeral and on that day paid homage to my emotional rollercoaster. Seriously, on that day I went from laughing about a funny story a customer relayed to me about their grandmother who has breast cancer
– to –
reprimanding a volunteer for allowing a person to request donations on their site
– to –
singing to the Mamas and the Papas in a Ford Escape driving to WI
– to –
being annoyed at the driver for not taking the route I suggested
– to –
worrying that we may not meet up with the rest of the funeral goers at Wal - Mart on time – to –
being overjoyed at seeing my dad (who looked spiffy in his black faux suede shirt)
– to –
being reminded that this was the place that held my baby brother for a time not too long ago
– to –
being amazed by a woman's strength to stand after going through the death of two of her children
– to –
being impressed by a man who was comforting me when he should be falling apart himself
– to –
remembering a time when all of this broken family was whole and we had fun together
– to –
laughing about the dough covered in cinnamon being called "pizza freaks"
– to –
looking at aunt Ro's hands and remembering a Great Grandma that had the exact same hands
– to -
being sad that I have to leave my dad and sis to drive home to MN
– to –
stopping on the side of a country road and marveling at what nature created for us that night (the aurora borealis)
– to –
lying in my bed and taking the biggest hill of the rollercoaster as my emotions plummeted to the pillow in a pool of tears.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Mullets and Bubblers

This is a lame way to write a blog, I know…but, I liked this one. Enjoy. Fill it out yourself and let me know the results.

1. Flip to page 18, paragraph 4 - in the book closest to you right now, what does it say?
"With disgust, my mother tore a Bounty paper towel from the roll and handed it to him. "I should just let you bleed to death for terrifying our son like that."Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. It is sitting there begging to be finished.


2. If you stretch out your left arm as far as possible, what are you touching?
Well I had to bend it at a 90 degree angle, but I am touching the coffee table that Shannon snagged from a set at her "cushy" non-profit television job. To be more specific, I am touching a plate with crumbs from my dinner that I finished an hour ago… clean up your plate Stephanie Ann!


3. What's the last program you watched on TV?
A taped (yes I still use the VCR Tivo losers!) episode of Heroes. "Save the cheerleader, save the world!"


4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
8:45pm….actual time = 8:50pm


5. Aside from the computer, what can you hear right now?
Static snoring away. I swear that cat is part old man! It has become so much a part of my background noise I almost don't notice it. Look at him laying there on his back like a dead raccoon bloated on the side of the highway. I love that cat!



6. When was the last time you were outside and what did you do?
Besides the walks to and from the car…
I was out on our balcony the other day taking pics of the geese and ducks on our pond. They were in this crop circle like pattern… I think plotting to take over the world.



7. What are you wearing?
A black t-shirt and pink, black and brown striped jammie bottoms. Wow, my shirt coordinates with my jammie pants… truly a first!


8. Did you dream last night? If you did, what about?
I am sure it was my usual erotic Vince Vaughn caper with him whispering little things that make me giggle.

9. When was the last time you laughed?
Um… see number 8. Actually, I laugh a lot. I love it! I just know I am going to be one of those old ladies who says things like, "I laughed so hard I tinkled"… wait, I already say that! I also like to make other people laugh. In my fantasy life I am a brilliant comedian.


10. What's on the walls, in the room you're in right now?
Well, as I look around… I see some bitchin' decorating sense. Man, who made these brave innovative decisions on where to place mismatched artwork, clocks and that window thingy with the vine? I also see a clump of cat fur hovering in the corner near the ceiling…wonder how it got there.

11. Have you seen anything strange lately?
Where I work there is a big parking lot that is shared by a Dairy Queen. Several people use this lot to do their walking. Usually old people with a small vanilla cone in hand. The other day one of the usual walkers had on red pumps… I mean RED. She paired them with some black socks and tan trousers. Maybe she was breaking them in so that she can wear them in a community theatre production of A Chorus Line… hmmm.


12. What's the last film you saw?
I have recently resumed my duties of consuming mass quantities of film. Recently, I have seen Borat, Stranger Than Fiction and A Good Year. Borat – highly recommend! Sasha Baron Cohen is pretty much the ballsiest guy on film. S. T. F. – the Will Ferrell version of the Truman Show career move that Jim Carrey did. I am on the fence about this one. A Good Year – Russell Crowe won me over in this. Go see it.

13. What is your screen saver?
Probably violating all kinds of copyright laws with it, but I have the Gieco gecko holding a cup of tea. I love that little guy and his accent. Give Vince Vaughn that accent and you'd have undoubtedly the perfect man.


14. If you became a multimillionaire, what would you do with the money?
First of all… multi seems kind of extreme. Besides giving a million each to my mom, dad, and sisters… I would purchase an old Victorian home for my mom close to the Twin Cities (selfish, I know) and renovate it complete with a decked out office so she can write steamy romance novels. She would also need a car to visit me on the weekends… a red mustang convertible. I would buy my dad a hobby farm with parts of it run down so he has something to occupy his time since he will HAVE to quit his job because the farm is close to the Twin Cities. Also, a truck of some kind so he can visit me on weekends. I would pay for Sarah to study Computer Animation and also to study fine art in Italy. I would arrange for Shannon an apprenticeship with Tim Burton and probably a trip to London, cuz if she is reading this she is jealous Sarah is going to Italy. And last, I would give a grant to CaringBridge that specifies it is used for purchasing computers for all hospitals that promote it… I would also selfishly want a plaque at each one proclaiming my generosity.

15. Tell us something about yourself that most people don't know.
I had a mullet when I was a kid. There I said it. I don't think this is a terrible thing since it was the 80s and most of the population adopted this party in the back hairdo.


16. What event shaped your life the most?
Wow… this is one of those questions that really makes you dig deep. I think I am going to go with my brother's death. I have been jarred out of my thinking that I have all the time in the world. I made the decision to quit my job so that I can live my life a little more because of that. And I do appreciate my family more. Unfortunately this event also shaped the cynical look on everything that I have. I miss him terribly and am angry that he is gone!

17. Do you like dancing?
I like the night life. I like to boogie.


18. George Bush?
Wait, are you asking me if I like him as a person or as the president? Oh, never mind… the answer is the same.

19. Bubbler or water fountain?
Bubblers are for drinking… water fountains are for throwing pennies and making wishes!


20. What is the best dream you ever had?
I love this question because I get to talk about my brother again. I have had several delicious glimpses of him in my dreams, but one stands out… I am nailing together a baby cradle and am able to put together the frame with no problems. When I try to put a bottom in it, I notice I have run out of wood. This is the most devastating thing to me for some reason. I begin to sob and bury my face in my hands. Then, I get a tap on my shoulder. When I turn my head Andrew is standing there with a big, comforting smile. He walks over to the cradle and puts his arms under it. I woke up with tear stained cheeks and this feeling of peace… it was the BEST!

Thursday, November 09, 2006
Feathered Hair and SMACKING
Dee Dee was my mom's sister. She was stubborn as a grass stain, opinionated to a fault and had a scowl that is still with me today. I can see her vividly in my mind wearing a sleeveless shirt, a pair of jogging pants hiked up her legs, blond feathered hair, thick rimmed glasses in the peach eighties tortoise shell she always wore and her arms folded on top of her breasts - hands buried in her armpits. She had amazing legs that were always tan and looked fit even when the rest of her body gave in to the excessive Dorito/Chicken McNugget habit she had. She had an amazing heart as well. Growing up in a single parent household would have been unbearable without our extremely generous 'second mom' there to help with things other kids took for granted, like new school clothes or family vacations.

We used to drive to this lake to go swimming. It was 'out in the country', so it was a special treat to be able to go. I remember the back roads leading there being just as fun as the actual lake. The road had some steep 'lose your belly' hills that Dee Dee would always make sure to take extra fast provoking squeals of delight from the three girls in the back seat. We would pass llama farms, elk, and buffalo. It would make us feel far removed from the rest of the world. After spending what felt like hours swimming and jumping off the dock we would prepare for the journey home. This is where the greedy child would come out in my sisters and I. You see, the lake was a destination reached by either driving the back roads or by going through Waupaca. Waupaca was a 'big city' that had… a Dairy Queen.

Sarah, Shannon, and I would sit in on the edge of our towel covered car seats with fingers, toes and arms crossed hoping the car would turn left to Waupaca. Sometimes it did and we would grin from ear to ear as we took the path to the Promised Land. We were elated and eager to get our hands on the cool creamy soft serve, to treat ourselves to this summertime luxury. Elation was mixed, however, with anxiety over the fear we all faced as children riding in the car eating with Dee Dee. The fear of… SMACKING. Sometimes her radio would be blaring some country song or she and Mom would be discussing some adult topic and we were lulled into a false sense of security. We would slurp into our cones with fervor and forget the NO SMACKING law. Since she obviously possessed super hearing, we never got away with it for long. The radio would suddenly go quiet, the feathered head would snap around and the scowling face would peer right at the culprit. The unfortunate victim would let out an audible gulp and from behind eyes blinking away tears would utter a pathetic little, "Sorry". Then we would get our first warning, "the next time I hear you smacking, the cones go out the window". Remembering that one time (the ONLY time) we all lost our cones, we immediately slow our pace on devouring the cones and concentrate on not making a sound. To this day, I hardly make noise when I eat and I am irrationally disgruntled when I hear others SMACKING.

I miss her so much. I miss her honesty when I asked her opinion about something. I miss the way she used to eat her fries (to describe this would be impossible). I miss her posture. I miss one of my biggest fans. I miss her vocabulary: "Quit your SMACKING", "Chew with your mouth closed" and "Take a picture it lasts longer" were all phrases that up until a few years ago was sure she coined. I miss her car, my heart aches for just one more ride in her black Monte Carlo with the T-tops off listening to Garth Brooks.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Year 5 and Tangerine Paint
Brian Timm was my first friend. As I am fast approaching my 32nd year on earth, I often find myself drifting back to simpler times in my life. Lately, the time machine dial is set to "Stephanie: Year 5". Most of that year has been blocked out, but I do remember Brian Timm. His toe-headed image is stuck in my mind where my favorite memories live. We were neighbors. We were inseparable. We didn't care that there was a gender difference. We didn't care that our families were completely different. My family was falling apart and my house was full of crazy. He was my escape to normal.

We were cohorts in some major crimes. Our spree started with an enticing can of orange paint. I remember the look of the can and the smell as it sat on the steps of the home next door beckoning us to come and investigate. We were attached at the hip so I can't tell you for sure who noticed it first, but we ran like the wind to it. Some silly adult in all their hastiness left the lid off and the circa 1970's bathroom tangerine orange looked like a pool of melted sherbet. To this day, I fully blame those careless painters for what transpired next on that sunny day in year 5 of my life.

It plays out like a slow motion scene in a movie… My head slowly turns towards Brian and I give him an evil little look which he completely understands. With a stifled giggle, he hands me a big clean brush. I plunge the bristles deep into the can to capture the beautiful orange hue. The paint drips a little, but I quickly move to my canvas. Mimicking the great painters of the past, I brush back and forth creating a 3'x 3' splotch on the gleaming white siding.

Years later, I still can't tell you our motive. Was it to be malicious? Was it to be helpful? Or, were we just simply curious? Whatever the motive, I am glad I have the memory… and some incriminating photos thanks to my Mom.

Monday, October 16, 2006
Cat barf and spinsters
I spent this evening cleaning up orange piles of cat barf. Why do they insist on marking every surface of my cream colored carpet with the discarded contents of their intestines? I complain a lot about the barf, the litter box, the constant, "get down from there" and the fact that their attention is only given on their terms… but, I have grown accustomed to having the little furballs around. I love the way they wake me up every morning by laying directly on my bladder. Then they wait patiently by the bathroom door listening for the toilet flush – a signal that they will soon be fed. I like the way they lay on their back like dead raccoons. And I especially love they way they claim ownership of the back of chairs and couches moaning with disdain when you disturb them.

I used to hate cats! When did this apparent love affair begin? Well, it began with my fat, tailless feline 7 years ago. Having been a devout dog lover for most of my life, I never thought I would lower my standards to befriend a cat of all things. But, I moved away from home leaving my dog with my mom because the warden of my new dwelling wouldn't allow him to live with me. Cats were acceptable. Fast forward to a tiny black and white cotton ball with a tail like a bunny and a personality like a puppy. I loved her instantly even when she pooped on the couch… even when she turned out to be a he (it was a hidden testicle, we don't discuss it around him). I named him Staticulous William Minelli Presly. Now, I am not one of those creepy cat ladies…yet… but, I do like to talk about him…just ask.

My sister and I are roommates and she has her own little hairball expelling friend. We have doubled all the aforementioned activities… the barf clean up etc. Her cat is a little more feline than mine, but when she wants to can be annoyingly lovable. The cats are actually best friends and are making me worried that my sister and I may never live apart… you know for the sake of the kids…er cats. Visions of lap afghans, two rocking chairs, fights over the remote, pictures of our cats all over the walls and memories of what could have been are running through my head…. eeek

So, now my entry has turned to spinsterville, I think it is time to call it quits. It's time to head to bed where I will sleep off to the side so that my fat feline can claim his spot, snore, and make the little noises that make me feel safe and loved. For now I am just a gal in her thirties that happens to have an awesome pet.

Saturday, August 26, 2006
Skinny Jeans and Demoted Planets
What I believed to be true was questioned this week

Let me tell you my story...I ran to the store - - ok, you caught me, I actually drove. I don't run unless there is a bobcat chasing me even then I would try to give it a Whiskerlickins with hairball remedy and hope to make friends before he tears into my patella. Anyway, I went to the store because I was out of some necessities. When it was my turn to put my stuff up on the counter, so that Doris the "smiling" cashier could earn her pay I spotted a must have for fall. You guessed it, the People Fall Fashion issue. BIG EYE ROLL HERE!!! In a moment of weakness I threw it on the counter (insert Doris's look of you got to be kidding me, I just pushed the total button). I rushed home so that I could start planning the rest of my fashion future. Plopping on the sofa with a bottle of agua and my new prize, I began to flip through the glossy pages. Lindsey says that her must have is a stylish bag (ok, stylish bag...check) Plaids are totally in see Jennifers beautiful skirt (ok, I can handle that) then... Horror of horrors...there they were SKINNY JEANS! What next? A scrunchie? Leg warmers? Pop in Footloose and Wake Me Up Before You Go Go cuz the skinny jean is back! I truly believed that cruel fashion was gone.

My Very Enthusiastic Mom Just Served Us Nine _____. What is missing? HELLO!!!!.... Pluto. Now the solar system I grew up with is lacking the "P" for my little pneumonic device. I read this the other day as I turned my computer on to begin what I thought was a normal day:

In what many scientists describe as a triumph of science over sentiment, Pluto was demoted to the status of a dwarf planet.

This whole thing reminds me of an after school special Here is the plot: Pluto was born a dwarf planet, but spent the majority of its life pretending to be something it wasnt something that society labeled it. Now, the world has grown more accepting of Pluto and realizes it needs its own label (cuz we are a culture of labels) And I even read in the NEW YORK TIMES that they are coming up with a new classification trans-Neptunian. Honestly!