in the meantime

I head to volunteer in the kitchen at my kids' school.  It's kind of a dirty job.  I wash dishes, the smell of tater tots and sloppy joes infuses my hair, plus I get a little sweaty since it's always really hot in there.  Every week it's a serious conundrum:  should I shower first and feel slightly skeevy the rest of the day, or shower after my shift and feel real fresh for the rest of the day? 

On Monday I decided to shower later.  I have to wear an apron and a hat in the cafeteria and I don't get too close to anyone since I'm behind a counter serving food and then alone in the corner by the dishwasher.    So, I pulled a stocking cap over my head, skipped wearing a bra and tossed a t-shirt over my rank body before heading to run a few errands and pull my shift in the kitchen.  My master plan included running afterwards, getting a good cardio sweat going before hitting the showers.  Genius!

And then, just as I was pushing the last racks through the dishwasher, the school secretary came running up to me.  "We need you to cover Kindergarten this afternoon."  Of course it was an emergency.  Naturally there's no one else available to take on those kids.  I wiped off my hands, untied my apron and followed her upstairs.  (BTW:  please pray for this teacher--I cannot go into details here because I respect her privacy.)

I spent the afternoon smelling funky, wearing my stocking cap over my greasy hair and feeling thankful that Kindergarten kids don't care if you wear a bra or not.  We studied counting to ten, following Jesus, our five senses and I read three chapters out of a Junie B. Jones book (yes, I do all the voices--did you really wonder?).  The kids gave me an enthusiastic and slightly off-key preview of their Christmas concert songs.  I won't lie to you, though, it wasn't all sunshine and lollipops (although on Tuesday we did study the letter "L" and lollipop begins with "L.")  I totally felt the Art Teacher judging my wardrobe choices for the day when she came in to draw snowmen with the kids.  My favorite part of the afternoon happened after I'd gotten them all bundled, packed and lined up to head home. 

Ms. W!  You're supposed to give us all hugs or high-fives before you say goodbye!  (they explain this in an ear-piercing chorus, using their level 4 yelling voices, 'cuz that's how Kindergartners talk to you.)


Well.  I hunched over and awkwardly waited as each kid decided how they'd end our quality afternoon together.  Would they go in for the full hug or offer up an arm's length sort of farewell?  Some kids hesitated for a moment, sizing me up and deciding whether I was hug-worthy or a more casual "high-five" kind of acquaintance.  For the record, I got mostly full-on hugs around my midsection, one "half hug," and four high-fives.  Unquestionably the best feeling I had all day--besides the shower I took an hour after I got home.

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wetland restoration update

It's been pretty quiet back there for the last couple weeks.  All that's left of the big equipment are these tracks:

The ugly black plastic fencing still marks the edge of our property.

And the field looks clean-shaven, doesn't it?

Except these mounds, perhaps 4 feet high, still surround the field.

They're covered with weeds (mostly button weed, which grows FAST and TALL and has the softest leaves) and this mesh fabric.  Beneath the mesh is a layer of straw, so I assume they've planted something.  Native grasses and flowers?   Potatoes?  Who knows.

All I can tell you is that there's a LOT of mesh--this mound goes all the way down along that tree line.

 The rest of the field seems to be unplanted, just graded flat.

Along one edge is the public snowmobile trail, already optimistically marked for winter.  The trail used to cut straight across the length of this field.  I wondered how they'd handle it.  Now it appears to go along the edge.

You know that great big industrial-sized bridge they built across the creek?  Gone now.  Just a bunch of big rocks left behind.  As you can see, the creek is still dry, which tells you how dry our weather has been this season.  (This also adds to my confusion about the mold count being high.  Can you have mold if it's dry?)

 Another shot of where the bridge and the huge board of certificates, notices and permits once stood.

I found this all rather disappointing. I expected to see something more exciting after a summer's worth of heavy equipment moving around back there.  This field is eerily lifeless.  I didn't even see a mosquito or a bird fly past.

There you have it.  Wetland mitigation project phase II.  I'll keep you updated if/when anything more happens.  I'm most curious about what they planted on those mounds.

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just a small town me

living in a lonely world...

Everyone got that earworm from Journey lodged in your head now?  Good.  Now I'll announce the winner of M.K. Graff's second Nora Tierney mystery, The Green Remains (drumroll)

Small Town Me!  Woot!  Woot!  Congratulations!  Email me your mailing address and I'll get your book on it's way to your lap! 

I dropped Mr. B off at camp this morning.  It's his very first time going to Lake Lundgren Bible Camp and I cannot wait to hear how he likes it.  He'll only be gone 3 nights--it's a junior camp.  Already Mr. G has begun bribing Mr. T to sleep with him so he's not lonely.  Mr. T drives a hard bargain, which is surprising--the beds in B&G's room are comfortable and Mr. G doesn't snore.  You'd think missing one kid would ease the running around here, but Mr. D's still got to coach the game Mr. B will miss and we still have the other soccer/baseball/karate/summer school stuff to keep us hopping until I retrieve Mr. B on Thursday.

I haven't mentioned this year's hired help, have I?  Mr. D always hires one of his varsity baseball boys to do his "honey-do" list all summer long.  It lets him off the hook so I don't nagnagnag at him all summer long, gainfully employs one of Happyland's youth and keeps me happy because stuff gets done.  This year's kid is quite tall, so I've decided to call him TB for "Tall Boy."  Right now TB is pitching balls to Mr. G who cannot seem to get enough ball this summer.  Last night he came home from tournament team practice wanting somebody to play catch with him.  He's a nut.  A very talented nut.  TB makes Mr. G very very happy, too, because he's always game to play catch or pitch to him.
 
And now, dear reader, I'm off to pick raspberries before it gets hot again here.  I'll be jammin' later.

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riddle me this

Monday night Mr. B and I rolled in from karate class. Mr. D was at a (very long and politically charged athletic association) meeting, Mr. G and Mr. T were home hanging out. When we pulled into the garage and exited the Momvan, we were assaulted by the most terrible odor imaginable. It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually I determined it was burning rubber. This led me to pop the hood on the Momvan and check all of the tires. You see, I was convinced the Momvan was about the spontaneously combust. It was definitely something burning. And this is just the sort of thing that would happen right after we decided to replace Mr. D's car with a salvaged hybrid. Right?

But the Momvan checked out. I went inside and kept getting hits of the odor. Basement? Everything was fine. I checked the tree, all the electrical outlets. We seemed safe from a house fire. I went back outside and kept getting the scent. I checked the electric Christmas lights and extension cords. There seemed no rhyme or reason for the cause or source, but I definitely smelled that burning blacktoppy-tar-rubber-plastic smell.

Mr. D came home an hour later and smelled it, too. We examined garage door openers, his car (about to get traded in the next morning), I even walked up the driveway to ascertain whether the stench was blowing in from somewhere else. I tore apart the laundry room adjacent to the garage--checked the dryer vent, the wiring, even pulled the dryer out from the wall and ended up vacuuming up a half pound of lint and dust bunnies. I confess I went to bed that night certain we'd be woken up by the screech of smoke detectors. I knew I'd missed something smoking, burning, combusting. What was that horrible smell? Where was it coming from?

Sure enough, the next morning we could still smell it. Strongest in the garage. Mr. D warily drove to his office and returned, checking his car once again and coming into the house exclaiming, "Smell my hand! I can even smell it on my hand!"

Reader, at this point I was certain the Apocalypse was upon us. My overactive imagination deducted that all plastics made in oh, say 1995, was melting and turning toxic right before us, creating a swamp of deadly chemicals that we'd inhale and die from--or cause electrical fires and we'd be caught up in the resulting inferno. Silly, but the smell was coming from all kinds of odd spots--Mr. D's phone, the laundry room, the garage, the Momvan, Mr. D's hand.

Tuesday, about 10:00 Mr. D calls me from work. "Jax got sprayed by a skunk!"

I gasped, "How do you know?" and run to the window to look outside at the dog who is sitting in his little house.

"I was thinking about it and you know every where we smelled that smell? Jax was right there. In fact, I even told him to move his head when I looked under my car, and that's when it smelled the strongest. I petted him--that's why my hand smelled. It all adds up, my dear Watson."

I walk outside and sniff. Now the top notes of burning blacktoppy-tar-rubber-plastic smell had worn off and sure enough, there was that sour, musky, raw skunk spray aroma. Jax trots up to me and I take another breath. Yep. Who knew? I guess the first blast of skunk smells nothing like the lingering odor we're all more familiar with.

So. We have a smelly dog, below freezing temperatures, a new car in which we will not put the dog, a house in which we will not bring the dog and a Momvan which I refuse to contaminate with skunk smell. We can't bathe him outside, it's too cold. We won't bring him inside, it's too cold to ventilate properly. Everyone's avoiding Jax like the Black Plague and I read on the internet that skunk smell lasts up to 6 weeks.

SIX WEEKS!

After reading the suggested remedies (none included, "let the dumb dog suffer and the smell will naturally fade and all will return to normal without any dire consequence"--and trust me, I searched hard for that advice) I finally suggested to Mr. D that he borrow a work truck with a metal cab (less likely to absorb the odor) to transport the mutt to a dog groomer's.

In other news, Mr. G woke up the other morning and went outside in 23 degree weather to take his morning constitutional off the edge of the front porch in bare feet. WHY? you may well ask.

I went into the boys' bathroom of preference to figure it out. He won't go upstairs because that bathroom is disgusting, even right after I clean it he won't use it--and it's his fault because he won't aim. Downstairs someone hadn't flushed properly (you have to hold the handle down for a couple seconds) and a pile of brown poo lay marinating in the bottom of the toilet. Of course it's easier to step outside and pee in bare feet while freezing to death than to just flush the toilet. Right???

Straight from stinky dog to funky bathroom. Which explains why I'm dressed like this lately:

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it's not all sunshine and roses here

Jax found the skunk.

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devious plans

Your comments were SO funny yesterday--honestly, people. And now I'm sorely tempted to get this summer's manny to dress up in a big furry costume and scare the begeezus out of a pack of little boys this Saturday morning. Mr. D has a huge fake fur coat from way back in the day--it would work to great effect on overactive imaginations. Or I could just go out in the woods wearing my bathing suit--I have't grown a full winter coat of hair on my legs yet, but if I don't shave for the rest of the week I would resemble my Sasquatchian ancestry from a distance ... Thanks for the brilliant idea, Shelly!

Today I'm off to the doctor's office to finally get these injuries checked out. It's probably a bad thing when the pain begins radiating to areas outside of the original injury. Plus, I like to make sure I have full prescriptions for my asthma meds before all the holiday traveling. Heck, if I can get my pap smeared and my mammos grammed while I'm there, I should be good to go for another 7,000 miles.

In other news, I'm continuing to whittle away at the stuff bogging me down. On the physical end, I have a goal of culling one pile of stuff per week. We have all these random corners filled with things of no use or value. Old catalogs, books I've read but will never read again, missing parts to defunct toys and games--the kind of clutter that impairs my quest for serenity. Today I dug around the edges of our bedroom and chucked a good-sized pile of junk. I know I go through life unaware of these things, they aren't pressing matters, but I do believe they subconsciously register as "One More Thing To Do." By clearing those piles and putting things where they belong (gone, in drawers, wherever), I get more mental clarity.

I've also deleted a few websites that I used to read daily. Eliminating that sort of mental clutter is good--it gives me more quality time and reduces the amount of negative or useless information I'm packing into my brain.

I went grocery shopping without the boys yesterday and bought a lot of good, healthy food. I'm making an honest attempt at eating more vegetables and fruits, more whole grains, less dairy and meat. Not a radical change, but if I eat better, I tend to feel less sluggish and more positive.

Spill it, reader. What devious plans do you have up your sleeve today?

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one grande java chip frappuccino with a side of toenail polish

You know I never did some stuff (see: post from last week) and naturally some people took that to mean I'd created some sort of funky bucket list that involved following NASCAR and knocking down wedding guests so I could catch a bridal bouquet. Au contraire. Nevertheless, prodding came from all corners to quit being a fuddy duddy about my toenails. My neighbor gal, J, invited me out for ice cream-coffee drinks and pedicures to help celebrate her birthday. "Go! You must go!" everyone encouraged.

Well, here you go, readers.

I began the day with reasonably clean feet and picked up J after lunch.

toes in the buff

We arrived at Starbucks and J explained the different drink categories. After much discussion while studying at the menu board, I decided to copy my friend Sarah's daughter and order something called "Java Chip." Totally copying J, I ordered a "grande java chip frappuccino." Naturally this led to the barista asking more questions--"Whole milk? 2 percent? Skim? Soy?" "Whipped Cream?" Obligating with the "routine" of a Starbucks counter, I filled in the blanks, including, I think, my blood type, athletic shoe brand preference and marital status.

Eventually this arrived:

Smooth, creamy, I confess I should've gone with another flavor because those little java chips kept lodging in my throat like tiny pills. It was yummy, but not unlike a chocolate milkshake. People, the jury is out. I like coffee and I like ice cream, but they don't need to be mixed together for any particular benefit that I can fathom.

After sitting at an outside table and enjoying our cups o' frothy sweetness, we headed toward the beauty school where our side-by-side chairs awaited us.


The chairs had massage features (nice!) and the hot bath felt pretty relaxing on my feet. The photo above is of J's feet. Note her pedicurist's long blonde hair--it was really remarkable hair. My pedicurist (M, a nice gal from North Carolina who was seeking a career change from her gig as a CNA at a nursing home) was only in the nails program, her hair was nothing to get excited about.


Here's the little tub for my feet. Yes, those are my Germanic calves framing the shot, lending the entire photo a p*rnographic quality I just now notice.

The view from our chairs was really nice.


After much soaking and exfoliating and disinfecting, some clipping and filing took place. I thought the sloughing with the big file would feel worse than it did--really wasn't an unpleasant sensation. My cuticles (I have them on my toes? I had no idea!) were softened, pushed back and trimmed. Massaging, rubbing, scraping and polishing took place. My feet never looked quite so clean and pink before.


Then the pedicurist painted them.

I confess, every time I look down, my toes make me smile. Kind of like when you see a monkey wearing a dress. It's unexpected, you never thought the monkey looked naked before, but now with a dress it looks sort of cute.

I have cute toes.

Cute, robin's egg blue toes. On Green Girl feet.


My verdict? A pedicure is a relaxing treat and, unlike getting a facial or massage, you get to actually see the results which in my view adds bang for your buck. Will I get another? I imagine I will. Will I always paint my toes? Highly unlikely. Am I glad I did this? Yes, I am. Thanks, J, for a fun afternoon--and happy birthday!

(J's toes look elegant--she opted for OPI Red.)

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back in the olden days when Mr. D and I were DINKS

we lived in a neighborhood FULL of kids. We were legendary on our street because most of those kids attended the local parochial school. For those of you not "in the know," parochial schools are notorious for fundraisers. The PS Mr. T currently attends sends home at least one "fundraising opportunity" every week. Anyway, Mr. D and I cannot refuse a kid peddling frozen cookie dough, pizzas, gift wrap, fruit, Girl Scout Cookies or magazine subscriptions. We bought it all and we bought it with vigor. Consequently, the neighborhood kids figured out how to maximize the profits at 621 Taylor Street.

They'd hit me up when I'd get home from my teaching job around 4:00. "Sure, Angie. We'll take five pizzas." I'd leave the house around suppertime for my evening gig as choreographer of the high school musical and Mr. D would roll in the driveway at 6:00. The neighbor kids would ambush him. "Sure, Angie. Put us down for six pizzas." Delivery day would come and one of us would stand at our front door cutting a check for TWO separate orders. Smart kids. Suffice it to say, our freezer was never empty the entire time we lived in that town.

Even now we don't deny the kid standing on our front porch trying to raise buck for band or football or Scouts. And if they're selling something we don't want to buy, we're usually soft-hearted enough to cut a check directly to their organization.

As for our own children, they don't participate in any fundraising. At the PS, we paid the "fundraising buy-out fee," entitling us to a guilt-free year without hitting up our friends and family to buy anything. Since I'm President of the Happyland Elementary PTA, I've insured that almost all of our organization's fundraising is event or service based. We have only one "sale" fundraiser each year and I usually don't take part in it. My sons never bother anyone to buy anything on behalf of Happyland Elementary. The park & rec teams they play on are paid for through membership fees and a very lucrative concession stand. Mr. T is the only "fundraiser" in our family since he's part of Boy Scouts.

This year he wanted to sell popcorn for Scouts and I was okay with that only because he's really really really into Scouting. The organization gets 70% of the profit and Boy Scout popcorn has a reputation of being a good product that people appreciate buying. He did all the sales himself at his dad's office because his dad's office allows kids to do that kind of thing. And Mr. D has a reputation of being very generous to other people's kids fundraising efforts, so it seemed like fair game. Mr. T sold a ton of popcorn, making enough money to purchase a badly needed tent for his troop. He did such an outstanding job pitching his product and his cause that we even got emails from Mr. D's colleagues complementing his sales skills. But Mr. T did it himself. The only thing I did was drop him off and pick him up since he's too young to drive. He organized the orders, kept track of the money and wrote thank you notes to attach to the product when he delivers it next month.

And Mr. T only sold at his dad's office. We didn't bother our neighbors because they've got their own family members (children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews) to buy things from. We won't call on family because they're all out of state and/or on fixed incomes.

This said, I'm all for event-based fundraisers. In fact, a few years ago I suggested to Mr. D that his baseball team hold a clinic for little league players instead of selling those discount cards and they actually did--and made a tidy profit. I'm all for bake sales, lemonade stands (a particular weakness--I've been known to circle back around a block to get a Dixie cup of lukewarm Kool Aid from some enterprising kid), rummage sales and carnivals. The idea of giving a little to get something back best fits my philosophy on these matters.

And for the record, my favorite fundraising product of all time? Girl Scout Cookies.

Spill it, reader. What do kids sell that you cannot refuse to buy?

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one more thing

that makes Laurie Hertzel's memoir News to Me: Adventures of an Accidental Journalist such a great read is the time period. While reading it I was reminded and amazed at how much was taking place during the 70's-80's. The Cold War was ending--Laurie got to visit Soviet Russia and see firsthand a country caught between the static force of Communism and the momentum of history. Property rights and values were shifting in Northern Minnesota--from native spear fishing disputes to the slow crumble of factories and industry, Laurie bore witness to it all. She watched a steady flow Duluthians head for the Twin Cities. Changing times indeed, and Laurie's book captures the excitement and the fear.


This is your last chance to leave a comment and enter to win a copy of News to Me: Adventures of an Accidental Journalist. I'm picking one lucky winner on Sunday! And trust me, this is one read you do not want to miss.

In other news, the Packers stomped all over the Colts last night, Aaron Rodgers proved why he is the quarterback that old has-been Brett Favre wishes he still was--and why true-blue Packer fans are happy he moved on to Purple Pastures in Minnesota. And that Aaron Rodgers kind of made my beloved Peyton Manning look a little sorry, too. Lest you think I was there watching the game in person, I must tell you I caught about 5 minutes on television after returning home from my kids' karate graduation/movie premiere and before setting the stage for their slumber party. I'm not Mother of the Year, but I resisted temptation and stuck it out with Team Testosterone.

This morning I learned from Mr. D that I could have been sitting in upgraded seats at Lambeau thanks to one of his company's vendors. But I'm really glad I made the choice I did.

Really.

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like a charm

Last night Mr. G, Mr. B and I snuggled up for some bedtime reading on the floor. Mr. G jumped up and ran across the room to grab a blanket--and he returned with a blue one. "Don't you want that nice new pink one over there?" I asked. He rewarded me with a look of pure disdain and scorned the huge pile of Pepto-Bismo-pinkness saying, "I like blue." Mr. B nodded vigorously. Score one blanket for Green Girl on merit of color. Snuggie satisfaction achieved.

And speaking of things that work like a charm, let me explain the Pirate Game (AKA "Dirty Santa", Blarney, get your mind out of the gutter!). For years and years Mr. D's family exchanged gifts with everyone, for everyone. This involved 8 adults and 7 grandchildren during the height of our consumerism--one year the gift opening lasted over four hours. For some families, the expense of buying that many gifts was overwhelming. For others, the sheer effort of shopping for that many people was a chore of Herculean proportions. (Okay, that was mostly my issue, but come on! We don't live near my in-laws, so finding gifts that they'd each like was no easy trick. Not liking to shop didn't help much--and mind you, younguns, this was in the days before Internet shopping.) The annual Christmas celebration had become Mostly Obligatory and Not Much Fun, certainly not the holiday God had in mind for us.

We didn't quit this tradition cold turkey. First we weaned things down to a gift exchange where we drew names. But now the kids (cousins) draw names and the adults play the Pirate Game (AKA "Dirty Santa"). Here's how it works:

1. We set a price limit--in our case $25 (in the past people have brought Godiva chocolates, liquor, games, golf balls, home goods, steaks, and Hawkeye/Badger gear)--and each person brings to Christmas one wrapped gift.
2. After the meal, the kids open their gifts and we get a lull in the football games on TV, the adults pile their "Pirate" gifts in the middle of the room.
3. Numbers are drawn (we use playing cards) to assign 1st, 2nd, and so forth to insure a random game.
4. The first person picks a gift from the pile and opens it.
5. The second person may steal the first person's gift or pick a new gift from the pile.
6. Each subsequent person may steal an already-opened gift or select a new gift from the pile. When a gift is stolen, the giftless person may then steal a gift from another player OR choose an unwrapped gift.
7. The last player has the choice of opening the remaining present and leaving it there to steal another already-opened gift.
8. The game continues until there is no gift remaining in the center.
9. You may not "steal back" a gift someone steals from you. (This does not preclude your spouse stealing a gift from you in order to free you up to steal back a coveted gift. Couples in our family totally team up against each other.)

I've heard of families who play this game using White Elephant gifts, only edible gifts, or only homemade gifts. This game worked like a charm in making our Christmas more fun and less tedious/expensive/work. Everyone looks forward to the game--some years people bring really funny gifts, other years (like this last year) all the gifts get swapped and stolen and the game lasts a long time. We laugh, rib each other about gifts from years past, and the older kids in the family look forward to when they can play with us because it's that much fun. And I, personally, remember a single gift won in a game more than I can recall who gave me what when I return home with a huge pile of stuff from everyone. In a weird way, the Pirate Game has made Christmas more meaningful and memorable.

Spill it, reader, do you play the Pirate Game at your Christmas? Does it work like a charm? If you don't, will you suggest it to your clan? No one in ours has ever regretted starting this tradition.

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behold! the ssssssnake!

Dracula, one ONE-headed snake (a king cobra, to be totally accurate) and a Bone Dude.
Apparently Mr. G was saving his snake costume for Halloween. It never slid off, most people guessed he was a snake (except for one family who thought he was a fish). Some black face paint and a dab of white for fangs topped him off just fine. He had excellent range of motion, was warm enough and the satiny fabric slid behind him without any snags.



The long view from behind my little cobra.
The verdict? Not bad for a woman with no sewing machine and blessed little skill. If I hadn't had Mr. B's birthday party I might've attempted the other two heads on that snake costume, but all's well that ends well.

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excellent guess!

Oooooh, y'all are good! # 3 was the lie. I never took any of those classes. I was a good student and took helpful courses like Typing, Accounting, Advanced Math and Spanish IV, but I never set foot in a Home Economics classroom. I was also a skipper--and I'd usually go hang out at the park or the public library and read. I know, even when I was being rebellious, I was a total nerd. The assistant principal would greet me by name when I'd come in to serve detention--he didn't treat anyone else in detention with the same respect.

Here's Round II of two truths and a lie:

1. I was Homecoming royalty.

2. I wrote for our school newspaper and dispensed helpful advice from my own column.

3. I skipped my high school graduation and went waterskiing instead.

As in our previous round, Sarah, you are not allowed to play. (Can you hear her whining, readers?)

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Halycon Days

Little known Fun Fact about Green Girl: she can carve a mean pumpkin. (And a scared one, a happy one and an evil one.)

Team Testosterone has a long weekend due to a teachers' convention--and as they grow older having them home is FUN. Really, honestly FUN. I confess, Quality Time with them was overwhelming for me 3 years ago--they drove me crazy with their constant messing up the place, crying, eating, leaving crumbs and slobber everywhere and don't even get me started on the diaper changing. (Bet you're all glad I didn't start blogging until a year ago--oh the shitty tales I could've writ.) Their pudgy toddler cuteness did NOT always compensate for their destructive tendencies (plugged toilets, scribbled walls & cabinetry, stained carpets--I shudder at the memory).

But now. Now they sleep in a little and wake up happy. They tell me in clear English what they want to eat and clear their own spots. They immediately gravitate to their cars and trains, guns and blocks. I clean the kitchen and run laundry while they play SO nicely together. Granted I dodge dozens of Nerf projectiles and the volume is LOUD, but it's a joyful noise.

Instead of dreading the next 4 days of their company, we have big plans to roast pumpkin seeds and bake a pumpkin dessert. We've got supplies for craft projects (early Christmas gifts) and a stack of library books. We'll practice our karate forms, celebrate Halloween a few more times and build a giant train track. We'll put final touches on Mr. D's birthday gift and have a bonfire in the woods.

I once heard that ages 5-10 are the glorious years of childhood--so far they are utterly enjoyable. Truer words were never spoken.

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Magical Schmagical

We're back, broke and totally bummed out to break out the winter coats (flurries expected today--WTF???). The Disney Corporation hosted a fantastic vacation experience for us, complete with these memorable highlights:

* Team Testosterone loves 3-D movies. We didn't go to a single show, even the one we TRIED to see (Fantasmic) was rained out. But they appreciated the 3-D bugs, Muppets & shrinking. They also liked the fireworks and parade.


* Hollywood Studios? Major waste of time. Other than the 2 roller coasters, 3-D Muppets and stunt show, I left unimpressed. My question: WTF were you thinking, Disney People, to design a theme park to hold 200,000 and then try to funnel 500,000 people through it daily? Seriously, no fun at all. I can drive to Chicago for a similar experience at Six Flags for a fraction of the cost.

* Animal Kingdom, on the other hand, was wicked cool despite trying to feed Mr. G to the dinosaur fossils. So much to see--the safari rocked and there were exotic animals at every turn. I'd return to that park in a heartbeat.


* Expedition Everest FREAKED Mr. B RIGHT OUT. He worked out his Yeti phobias regularly on restaurant tables throughout the rest of our vacation.

The red spots are snow, the giant creature with long claws is the Yeti. Below the mountain are 2 dead bodies. I'll get him some counseling later this week.

* Housekeeping at the Beach Club resort was beyond fabulous. Every day they'd do something special--like propping up Team Testosterone's entourage after making their beds.

* We all loved the pool and spend many happy hours floating, bobbing, sliding and splashing. Team Testosterone met up with a trio of brothers from Stratford-on-Avon, England and met them nightly for volleyball matches.

* Despite the throes of kids, we rarely saw any bratty ones. I expected to see more melt-downs and tantrums than we actually encountered.

* Also amazing that so many people cram into Disney World without kids. I'm a purist--I don't see why families should go to Las Vegas. Likewise, I don't see why couples & singles should go to Disney World. It strikes me as very odd. Anyone care to comment on that opinion?

* Standing in line we saw many things, including one of Jen on the Edge's children waiting a turn:

* I tried to find Eurolush while passing through Germany. I wanted to have a beer with her, but no luck. She was probably standing in the queue in Ye Olde Pastry Shoppe.


* While a lot of kids enjoy the characters, mine were merely pleasantly surprised when they'd stop by our table at mealtimes. They had no desire to wait in line for further interaction. They'd stand obligingly for photos, slap 'em a high five, and return to their food.

* The Supreme Rip-Off (AKA Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party) did allow us to jump on many rides in Magic Kingdom without a wait. While everyone else stood in long lines to get candy and greet characters, we maxed out on the Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Carribbean, and the rest of the rides. The music, decorations, parade and characters rocked.

* Every time I turned around I stumbled over a midget dressed like a princess. Was this because of Halloween or do most little girls dress up like this at Disney World? Either way, the Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo Boutique made a killing on princess up-dos because every other girl child sported one.

* Because of the princess hype, I wondered what my sons would find in the shops. Silly me, we came home with 3 Buzz Lightyear space ranger blasters, 3 pirate swords and 3 Indiana Jones/Adventureland rifles. I feel safer now with all that firepower stored in our house.

* The fall decorations at Magic Kingdom were inspired.

* The food always tasted good--everyone found something to enjoy at each meal.

* The crowds at this place belie all media claims of a recession. Just sayin'.

* The weather cooperated (except for Thursday night). Being from Wisconsin, a little muggy heat this time of year was a blessing (even though my hair got really big and bushy).

* Mr. B's says his favorite things were the Muppets 3-D and the resort pool. Mr. T claims his favorite was the Twilight Tower of Terror & Expedition Everest. Mr. G loved Test Track & Stitch (no surprise, he strongly identifies with that creature). Mr. D's best memory is Mr. B FREAKING OUT on Expedition Everest.

* My favorite parts were watching the boys' eyes light up as we floated through It's a Small World, all the nostalgia & fantasy of Magic Kingdom, Soarin' at Epcot and walking through the world alone with Mr. B & Mr. T. (I made them say "cheese" in different languages while they posed for photos by landmarks. We had sublime strawberry-red bean and caramel-ginger root ice cream in China, saw the most twee train garden in Germany and made fish faces by the Neptune fountain in Italy.)

Bottom line: Team Testosterone had a blast and will remember this the rest of their lives. I guess a gal can't ask for much more.

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A decent proposal

Taking the spare room at my grandparents' house, I duly reported to New Teacher Training and looked at 5 different apartments. By phone I relayed the extreme ickiness of the ones I could afford alone and the glorious beauty of the two I could afford with (ahem) a roommate.

D allowed me to twist his rubber arm and agreed to share the security deposit and join me in a two-bedroom at $480 a month that October.

For a month I enjoyed the pretty new apartment (fresh paint! clean carpet!) and sort of wished I could live there alone because really? Soon D would show up with all his yucky guy stuff and spoil it. But move him we did (I single-handedly deposited 5 years worth of Sports Illustrated in a dumpster), and retrieved my surplus crappe out of the storage unit, and settled into a facade of cohabitation. With no ring.

D called me at work one day to tell me: Green Girl, my friend S is coming to town with his wife and they want to meet us for dinner.

Me: Great!

D: His wife's family is from Door County so they want us to meet them there Friday night. Do you want to go?

Me: Door County? I love Door County! Please! Yes! Yesyesyes! (FYI, Door County is our little New Englandy peninsula and in October it's all about pumpkin festivals and fall colors, hot cider and quaint cozy shoppes.)

D: I guess her brother owns this bed and breakfast so we'll meet them there. I don't know if we should spend the night, though. You and she might not get along ...

Me: We will! I don't care if she's a chain-smoking NRA card-carrying Walmart manager with season NASCAR tickets! We'll be great! She'll be great! I want to stay overnight! Door County!

D: Well, let's play it by ear. We can pack and see how it goes.

Later that week ...

D: S called and they're running late with her cousin's family so we're supposed to eat without them and meet them later at the B&B.

Me: (singing) Door County! Who cares? We're going to Door County!

D & I drove north and ate dinner en route to Bailey's Harbor. In my blissful state, I ignored D when he tried to goad me into fighting about commitment and kids. The lure of bike rides under a canopy of orangeredyellowbrownburgundy leaves, apple orchards and winery tours is a strong force--in a fog I told him we could compromise at 2 kids to avoid a fight. We paid our bill and drove the remaining half hour, pulling into the most charming B&B on Lake Michigan. We walked in and the innkeeper met us in front of a blazing fireplace.

Innkeeper: S called, they're running late. He said to go on up to the room and make yourselves at home. There's champagne and you're to help yourselves.

D: That SOB! He's always running late!

Me: Door County!

We climbed 3 flights of gleaming oak staircase and let ourselves into a room with it's own blazing fireplace and a whirlpool tub. French doors led to a balcony overlooking the lake and a huge arrangement of fresh flowers sat on a dresser. A bottle of champagne chilled in ice and I stood by the door sighing Door County! Even the air smelled better, all spiced with cinnamon and fresh harbor breezes.

D: Let's open this champagne.

Me: Door County.

D: I want to propose a toast.

Me: (craning neck to look at Lake Michigan glittering under the moonlight) Whatever. Door County.

D: (launching into some discombobulated speech about never being a rich man but never leaving me blah blah blah)

Me: Uh-huh.

Next thing I know D's on one knee and pulling out a little black velvet box.

Oh! Oh! Now I get it!

There was no S and wife coming to town. And the innkeeper, the guy at the liquor store in Bailey's Harbor and the local florist have been in on D's proposal plans for a month. Practically the whole town was waiting to hear my response the next morning when we came downstairs for breakfast--obviously it was a yes. Even my parents knew because D had asked my dad's permission 2 months prior. D left nothing to chance except for my answer to his question.

We had a lovely weekend. I wore my sparkling diamond solitaire and made sure I positioned my hand so everyone could admire it. We got married 10 months later in front of a packed church on a rainy day that peaked at 95 degrees. Over 380 people drank to our good health and danced the night away in true Wisconsin supper club style--the DJ played everything but the Chicken Dance and nobody objected to that or to our vows. Everyone told us that if it rained on your wedding day you'd either be lucky or wealthy.

Looking back, we were so young (and thin and dumb) to get married. I was 24, he was 31. We knew nothing about how to be married, but we adhered to the fundamentals of not quitting it no matter how tough--and no cheating. We had the distinct advantage of 2 healthy incomes and no family living nearby to meddle in our lives. It was just the two of us and we ended up doing pretty dang well. I'd say the old saying was right--we're lucky and wealthy, whether the weather that day had anything to do with it or not.

Even now I love my dress, but I regret the huge bow in my hair.

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First Date

Continued from Friday...

Me: "What do you mean, 'never have a chance to date me?' What would your wife say?"

D: "Wife? I don't have a wife. I'm not married."

Me: "Yes you are! You're married!" (somehow along the line I had imagined that the woman who was leaning up against D was his college sweetheart who he then married and they were living quite happily ever after. I know, I know. My writer's imagination gets carried away--I often invent lives for total strangers.)
D: "No I'm not."

(Also note that we're fighting already about who is right.)

D: So where are you moving to?

Me: It's a small town on the west side of the state, Arcadia.

D: Arcadia? I live 40 miles north of there! I live in EauClaire!

Me: No, you live in Iowa. (see? Still arguing about what I perceive to be right.)

D: I'm from Iowa. I live in EauClaire.

Me: Ohhhhhh.

The conversation eventually moves towards an exchange of phone numbers and so forth and then I leave the bar and Tex and head for home. D heads to his buddy B's house and begins to shout from the rooftops that "I've found the woman I'm going to marry!" (Granted, there was alcohol involved, but he really did make this proclamation.)

A weekend or two later D and I have our first date--B's mom's wedding. Normally a wedding would be an awful first date, but everyone attending is local and D and I already know them all. D picks me up at my parents' house (all packed up and ready to move) and I meet him in the living room. I turn the corner and step down the stairs and freeze.

I've never seen D outside, I've only seen him in dimly lit bars and 95% of the time he's been wearing a baseball cap. D is grey. Wait, look closer here. He's grey and white and silver. He's also wearing a suit and he's a lot taller in my parents' living room than he seemed in the bar. How old is this guy?

His car is nice--black and sporty. I imagine his apartment is the same, minimalist and spartan like a bachelor pad ought to look, with black leather couch and possibly a decent print or two on the wall.

The wedding reception is nice. Everyone there talks about us being out together, the women are openly jealous and the men generally approve. We stand to the side of the crowd and talk about various things over Old Fashioned cocktails with pickled mushrooms. Then the dancing starts.

D begins to lip sync to "I'm Too Sexy," a song I've always hated. The crowd goes wild and his dancing is only slightly less exuberant than, say, Jack Black or Will Ferrell.


My jaw drops in shock.

I don't remember if we kissed goodnight after he brought me home. I don't remember much else after he gyrated and shook and shimmied in the center of a dance floor filled with women squealing and clapping for him. As I've said, a lot was happening. This was a turbulent time in my life.

I moved to a podunk town a few miles north of my teaching job. My apartment was above an empty store once called The Flower Pot (gift shop? coffee shop? I never knew). Wedged between 2 taverns and backed up against the train tracks, my rent for a one-bedroom pad without a shower cost $250 a month. It was the only option for over 20 miles. I had to carry my laundry across the street to a landromat where the dryers didn't work. Consequently I hauled soaking clothes back across the slushy highway to hang above the gas heater in my apartment. Nearly broke, knowing no one, my engine blew on my car and it was one of the coldest winters in Wisconsin history. My teaching position was 5 preps, 6 periods, and I'd been hired to replace a beloved and now dead teacher of over 30 years in a school so small that the entire building housed K-12 and the graduating class numbered 69 (my oldest student was 21--I turned 22 that February). The school librarian was my predecessor's best friend and she hated me, once even slamming the door in my face as I tried to enter to get resources. The administration ignored me, only a few other teachers acknowledged me, and my students were bracing themselves because they'd burned through over a dozen substitutes before I moved to town.

In the midst of my Winter From Hell, I remember these things:
* Mr. D took me to a lovely dinner the night of my first day on the job.
* Mr. D brought me chocolates and an enormous white teddy bear on Valentine's Day.
* I learned that D was 30, I was turning 22. We both got over it.
* Mr. D took me for Chinese food and to see movies--reflective of that miserable period, we saw Philadelphia and Schindler's List in the theater.
* We watched the Super Bowl together and I feigned interest in football.
* I made him vegetarian stir fry and he ate it, feigning delight (I later learned he was appalled because there was no meat and pineapple in the wok).
* We went on road trips and discovered a new supper club every Friday night-- we sampled the fish and cocktails from Whitehall to Trempeleau.
* D's apartment was NOT what I'd imagined, but that's another post.

D was the bright spot in a tough time and while I didn't have anyone else to go out with, I didn't feel stuck with him, either.

Then May arrived and:
1) D's dad died, unexpectedly.
2) The district decided to offer the full-time teaching position to a former student teacher. I had no job, no reason to stay put.

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Screw Iowa!

Six years ago, when I was VERY pregnant with Mr. B, I left my teaching job and determined to be a SAHM and try my hand a writing in my spare time (cue hysterical laughter from those of you SAHMs knowing better). I'd written a YA novel and sent out a stack of 50-ish query letters to agents and publishers with minimal success. I live in an area without a thriving writing community and no network to help me, so I attended a local writing conference that spring and met over a hundred people who had every good intention to write but no agent representation or accomplishment aside from self-published poetry chapbooks.

Not terribly helpful for a novelist with aspirations. Back to the drawing board.

I'd heard of the hallowed University of Iowa MFA program in Creative Writing, but obviously enrolling full time in a graduate program in another state was impractical. Then I learned of their Summer Writing Festival--a phenomenal opportunity for me to get some feedback on my latest work, meet and network with other writers and get a foothold in the writing community, and learn a few "secrets of the trade." The week-long conference was sublime (I highly recommend it if you're looking to attend a workshop or conference). While there I exchanged contact information with the best, most talented and most ambitious writers in the group in hopes that they'd continue to help me long after our workshop session ended.

In the year that followed I gained momentum with my new book, putting their feedback to good use and gleaning good advice on how to market my novel to agents (2 of them were represented). Weekly my new friends and I stayed in touch--exchanging pages for reader reaction, asking/answering questions, encouraging, and, most importantly, holding each other accountable for writing and not quitting.

There are millions of reasons to quit writing. I know 75% of them. What keeps me from quitting? My writing group.

The spring following the Summer Writing Festival, one of the women pitched an idea: What if we met and critiqued entire novels for each other--a book a day over the course of a week? (Most writing workshops limit the page count to 20 or less.) We asked the University of Iowa to host it, requiring only space, no faculty or facilitator. They declined our request--it wasn't a direction they wanted to go. "Screw Iowa!" we declared, "We'll do it ourselves!" (Now you know where that crazy name came from.)

We gathered at Marni's house in North Carolina and worked for a week--page by page critiques of one another's books, advice, questions and input flowing around the table like coffee out of the pots at 7 a.m. at the Sunrise Diner. We each left jubilant, our manuscripts in hand and work to do. It was the most valuable experience I'd ever had as a writer.

Through this group's help I've completed 3 books, had some work published online, signed with a literary agent, and have 2 new projects started. I never would have met 4 talented and diverse writers from 4 different states had I not gone to Iowa, and none of us would have experienced the same level of individual success without one another's help. The key idea here is that we went to a conference looking for writing partners and left committed to writing together. Because our method of working together has been so exciting and awesome, we want other writers to experience it, too.

To that end, we've created the Screw Iowa! website and written a book (hopefully available soon) describing the process by which we work. It sounds scary, connecting with strangers and getting their response to your writing--but when you do it right, it really works. www.screwiowa.com is intended to be a writer's resource and a place to connect through the forum. There's no charge (unless you decide to buy the book someday--but you can't yet, so no worries!) and our group is taking our show on the road to writing conferences across the United States over the next few years. The key to not quitting your writing dream is to find encouragement and an audience. Nothing--writing conferences, MFA programs, literary agents, the publishing industry--encourages collaboration like writers really need. www.screwiowa.com is a way to fill the void.

If you write, I really hope you check it out. I leave Sunday for my annual Screw Iowa! writer's workshop in Colorado for a week. The workshop we host ourselves--no fees, our agenda, no cutthroat critiques from ambitious writers jockeying for an instructor's favor--just writers helping each other to write--write well and finish the work they've started.

My particular point of pride is this website because it was my responsibility. So even if you don't write, check it out so you can admire my work! (And you can see what I look like because there's a group photo!)

Look! We even have an official logo!

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Mr. G eats cheese

We ate the cheese, slogged through puddles to attend a graduation party, and woke up Sunday to cancellations because of the storm system that has settled across the Midwest. We languished in a dry house enjoying excessive amounts of TV and home-cooked meals while recovering from Saturday. Because I have 2 manuscripts to edit, Mr. G will give the Cheese Fest Report. (But I never let him leave the message on our answering machine--I draw the line somewhere.)

That's me going to Cheese Fest.

That's me waiting for the parade coming ...

We saw a big tractor. Mom took the cheese they gave me and she ate it.

I'm not afraid of clowns. Not when they give candy to me.

There were cheesy dancing girls.

Here come my brothers.

Mom shared her opinions on politicians passing by. Nobody cared.

Then we went to the park. People carved cheese. The big man won. He carved a cycle-motor.

Mr. T and Mr. B climbed the rock wall.

Mr. T got to the top again but the buzzer at the top was still broken from last year. Mom said something about that 'not instilling a lot of trust in the rock wall's safety.' Mr. B didn't make it all the way up. Mom didn't let me go because I'm too little.

That's me! I went on the Crazy Castle 20 times.

There was more to do...I threw a ball at a fish and picked rubber ducks out of the water and shot a gun and threw bean bags. I won a lot of candy and stuffed animals and a ball.

Mr. B and I rode this. Mom went on the Tilt-a-Whirl with Mr. T and somebody puked.


This ride was the best. I got too dizzy on the dragon ride.


We saw the cheese again. And ate more cheese. Dad bought everyone silly string and we shot it all the way back to the H house. I want to go to Cheese Fest all the time.

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