Family

Pack it up, Pack it in

Well, as promised, here is my follow up since the APB (All Points Bulletin) was cancelled. Thank you, btw.

We arrived unscathed across the Florida line after a two-and-a-half-day road trip, going as far East as Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and as far south as Orlando, Florida, which was our destination and home for one week.

The road trip was both eventful and uneventful. Let me explain. We had no major mechanical issues with the rented minivan – no flat tires, or worse, blown tires; no accidental door dings or car crashes; no engine overheating or tranny giving up. Minor issue – the oil change message showed up on day one informing us that the oil needed to be changed. Ummm, forget something rental company?? The message remained even after the pit stop at Valvoline. No one could figure out how to reset the dang thing. So, yes, annoying, but pretty uneventful in the grand scheme of things.

SIDE NOTE: WE DID NOT RENT A TRANSIT VAN. We determined, pert near last minute, that we would save nearly $1000 if we compromised on a mini-van. So that is what we did. We did not need the faux body bag for luggage either. We fit all six family members, six suitcases, a laundry basket with food, seven backpacks housing things to do and sets of clothing (so we wouldn’t have to unpack the whole van to get out the suitcases during our first two nights), three pillows, five blankets, a small cooler, and a partridge in a pear tree.

At any given time while driving, my husband and I would hear, “How long until we are there?”, “Are we in Florida yet?”, “Why are we traveling East?”. Ugh. And to explain over and over again that we were road-tripping and that part of this vacation was seeing what we could see on our way to Florida. Tough stuff to understand apparently.

Now for the eventful portion… we drove through many cities with the 80s and 90s country XM station soundtracking our movements (I totally impressed my husband with my country singer knowledge, guessing the correct artist nearly every time) with our first “road-trip” stop at a giant fireworks store in Missouri which has two giant Transformers outside of the store with thirteen more inside. The kids and I ran around the store snapping shots with them all while my husband talked shop with the owner.

Up next, Paducah, Kentucky for some shut-eye. This was our first night after a 10-hour drive plus pit stops. The next morning, we crossed into Metropolis, Illinois over a fog-covered bridge to see the giant Superman and what the townspeople made of their own little Metropolis. It was pretty impressive. They have a store on the main street filled with Superman paraphernalia including Superman Museum, which we didn’t buy into. Shirts, capes, bobbleheads, stickers, and so much more. I bought a sticker for my water bottle that replicated the 1st picture below but without my kids’ mugs. My oldest daughter came across a phone booth and was mystified, we took bites out of giant burgers, and kissed superman. It was worth the stop.

A lego replica of The Super Museum.

After our Paducah/Metropolis stop we headed even further east to Tennessee and the land of Dolly Parton. We rolled into Gatlinburg around 5:30 p.m. and went to Ober Mountain. It’s a huge facility for alpine sliding, skiing, snow tubing, rock wall climbing, ice skating, a tram and so much more. The tram, the main reason for the visit, was delayed and a giant line clued us in that we wouldn’t be partaking in that! We only had two hours to experience all they had. We chose wisely with alpine sliding for everyone but my husband who instead rode the ski lift to the top for pictures and saw a bear, rock wall climbing, and ice skating for the little kids, which they had never done before (and we live in Minnesota! Shame on us). The big kids and adults were more on the “sit and wait” bench and overall, it was worth the stop.

From there we wanted to keep driving south, get a few more night hours in before we called it a day. One option was to go through the Great Smoky Mountains, but after speaking with a couple of Ober Mountain employees, it was deemed too dangerous to go through those mountains at night. There had been a dip in temps the night before and most of the roads near the top would have been frost-covered or worse, spotty with black ice. Imagine THAT in a minivan. We rerouted a different, safer way and stayed the night in, well, I can’t remember, but I drove as we left Ober mountain, down tight turns into the night towards a faraway hotel.

Leaving our hotel the next morning we traveled south again. Today we would arrive in Florida. As the kids said, FINALLY!

We had two full days at Cocoa Beach where the waves chewed us up and spit us out, but we had so much fun regardless. The kids learned to boogie board, one attempted to run into the waves holding the board parallel with her body and was slammed back, and our oldest learned to skimboard as well. The sun was hot and so was the sand. Not everyone ended up looking like a lobster which was a success in my book. Okay, it was me. I didn’t look like a lobster; everyone else was rather red and needed aloe.

We also hit up SeaWorld which had awesome rides, sea turtles, alligators, manatees..well, anything seaworthy I guess. Did you know there is a Sesame Street Land there!? By far my favorite! Big Bird’s Nest, Hooper’s Store! Ermergerd. My oldest daughter absolutely loves sea turtles and she was able to see some rescued turtles as well as a sea turtle in the wild while fishing.

An embarrassing moment here… For our second park, we chose Busch Gardens and drove an hour there to find out they closed at 6 p.m. because of their Howl-O-Scream. My response was a one-word response…use your imagination. We had 45 minutes to go on rides and enjoyed each one immensely. It was such a disappointment that we had such a short time there. I think it would have been a super cool evening park to be at. Maybe next time.

In consolation for my big screw-up, we went to Andretti’s Indoor Karting. We drove go-carts at 40mph (just the older kids and adults) while the littles had their own race at a lower speed. We had a package deal that included VR as well; super fun playing Dreamscapes with the little kids, while the older two played a zombie game. We all played a game where you sit in a theater with 7D glasses on shooting clowns – my husband wasn’t impressed and the glasses were small for our heads. Lastly, we played laser tag and my oldest son crowed about his victory and my youngest son blamed his loss on the gun not working. Typical.

In between all of the above excitement, there was pool time at our resort, excursions to find a Barnes & Noble and Sephora for the two oldest, Gator Golfing (pics below…I got third, which thinking about this now is also what I got racing), relaxation in our condo, Bananagrams (super fun for all ages and not without the younger two getting upset when they lost), smoothies and ice cream, and off-shore fishing (pics below as well) and many, many laughs.

There are so many more pictures but I’ll spare ya. Your retinas are probably bleeding by now anyway.

You may be asking how the heck we could afford a Florida vacation for six. Groupon is a key component to saving money. I bought a two-park ticket/person and saved 50%; the parks we got to choose from were Aquatica, SeaWorld, Busch Gardens, and Adventure Island. The Andretti Indoor Karting was another Groupon find along with Gator Golf and all the experiences were worth the money and the discount! This is not a plug for Groupon although Groupon, if you read this, you now know my contact information. Hook me up.

We also packed lunches for those days we were out on an adventure – beach days, theme park days, and we set off from home with an exceptionally large quantity of snacks and drinks. Every cent we saved made a difference.

We left Florida on Wednesday at 10:00 a.m. and reached home on Thursday at 10:30 a.m. My husband and I drove straight through with stops for gas, bathroom breaks, snacks, coffee, and a light nap. We became delusional and had a blast doing that together. Safety came first, of course. Always a co-pilot keeping watch, music surfing, and keeping conversations going.

To do my crucial job of co-pilot, I drank two Starbucks double-shot coffees with a triple-shot mixed in between those two. I felt sick afterward, but it was a source of laughter for us. We slept hard when we got home and were delighted to be in our comfort zone. The scenery was great in Florida, but until we got home, we hadn’t realized how much we love our trees and brown crops here. We missed it and have decided the next time we go on vacation it isn’t going to be in Florida.

The tap water was fishy-tasting anyway.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

I’ve been MIA on my blog. Call it a case of not-having-much-to-say or not-finding-the-time, but I’m back now. So you can stop worrying and cancel the APB regarding my whereabouts.

My family and I spent 2 weeks out of town, road-tripping east and then south for a week in Florida. Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Stay tuned.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware.

Unsubscribing from emails is a lengthy, complex process. Well, it seems that way anyway. What takes so long for those companies to take me off their list? You can’t tell me that once I click that magical “unsubscribe” button, those unwanted subscription emails cannot be immediately halted? Scoff. Give me a break (and my inbox one as well).

Instead, I have to continue with a chaotic inbox for another month or longer, while, what?, the IT department sorts out the printed requests, alphabetizes them, scours them for bizarre personal email names, and then when they have had their laugh, they’ll approve my unsubscribing request? Note: my email name is very generic, nothing like candybarmama@xmail.com or anything of the ilk.

What’s worse? I did this! 1% off? Sign me up! Goat handbook? Sign me up! Roller Derby Association? Sign me up!

Those topics and discounts seemed grand at the time, but now?! I’m drowning in unwanted emails. Unsubscribe me, dammit! (cough) Please. I’m whisper-begging.

Farm Fanatics

In case you weren’t aware…

Larry and Diane are great cat names. Also, kittens don’t stay kittens. They grow up into Cats. Weird, right? (I know you know that I know that you know they don’t stay babies!)

Anyway…

What cutie-patooties! These little furballs you pet, cuddle, and hope to keep around. They run, play, and get jostled by the little tykes living in your home, and then in the blink of an eye, they are in the adolescent stage, gawky and lanky and growing into their limbs (remind you of teenage kiddos?)…and then they become adults. Full-grown cats and they aren’t so cute anymore. Yeah, you still love ’em, but it isn’t the same. (This post is really starting to sound like I’m describing teens!)

We have a kitten farm right now with eleven kitties (we may have an awesome problem), none in the weird adolescent stage but making their way there. So drop me a line if you are in the Rochester, MN region, have a good loving home available, and want a kitten to cuddle. Currently, we have Lovey, Lucy, Half-Face (half black and half orange face calico), Kobe (yes, Kobe Bryant), Trevor (fat fluffer-nutter), Lily, and, well, the rest we can’t remember. Go figure for a brood that size!

And hurry up, they don’t stay tiny forever!

Disclaimer: no kittens were hurt in the process of writing this post. They are all well-loved (see picture above), but not litter-trained. That’s an easy fix upon admission to your family.

Family · This and That

Meatloaf struck again

A while back I posted about an upcoming trip to Superior Wisconsin; a birthday jaunt where my twin sister and I were going to celebrate another year alive and well. The apogee (such a fun word meaning climax, peak, or the highest point – add it to your vocab and enjoy) would be reliving our 8th-grade versions of rollerskating at a legit rink (not my particle-board barn floor) called World of Wheels. Well, we did it.

We planned our birthday trip around Friday night adult skating. We figured that was the safest time for us to lace up 5-pound skates and wobble around the rink; no kids to run over or into. We were right.

What we, umm I, was wrong about was building up my confidence.

The DJ/semi-professional skater had a sign-up sheet for song requests. Meatloaf signed up and within the hour his vampire video and song were played. I skated and sang while my sister, who was on a break, watched, laughed, and inwardly (and outwardly) cringed at my antics.

At about the fifteenth or sixteenth time around, I had made the adjustments like a pro. My legs were slightly bent to make for better skating and my left foot took the lead on turns while my right foot completed slight wiggles to assist. My confidence was soaring, my hair was flowing breezily behind me, and my eyes weren’t trained on my skates. I was feeling so alive! So 8th-grader-like!

If our DJ had actual records, this next moment would have been a giant screech of music coming to a halt. Much like my body did. Hard impact.

No one can say for sure if my skates were faulty or if my wheels collided or if I was pushed. Well, we can actually eliminate being pushed, can’t we. That seems far-fetched at a skating rink.

What we know for certain is the sound my body made when it hit the floor, the position my body was in for a good twenty seconds before I “popped” up, and the amount of laughter that ensued after I went down. Besides my sister, one person asked if I was okay. As soon as Alicia said, “yes, she’s fine”, he burst into laughter. And it was funny; I was laughing, partly because falling is always funny, but more because I was so embarrassed. My god, roll me off the floor into a corner, please!

Instead, I drug myself up and off the rink, found a bench away from prying eyes, and nursed my wounds.

Bruise on my left knee, bruise and a giant skin burn on my right knee, and let’s not forget, a bruised ego. One giant bruise, COMING THROUGH PEOPLE!

We sat for a good ten minutes, laughing and reliving the “Fall heard and seen by all” and then resumed skating like nothing had happened. I mean, come on, Meatloaf would have gotten back on the horse in the name of love.

I don’t have any pictures of my wounds, but I do have one that encompasses how awesome this place was. The only video I shot was after my crash to the floor, and it was of Alicia, unscathed and upright. Not worth adding to the post – she would vote “nay” on that addition.

Once you get my past my face – take your time -you’ll see the great art in the background.

It definitely was a memorable event for our yearly trip. No guarantees we will carve out time for this on our next birthday party, but who knows? I’ve got skates here and time to practice my skills.

I still have one question though. What the hell wouldn’t Meatloaf do for love?

Family

What Moms say during hiking.

I took the kids hiking the other day to Whitewater State Park. After we had gone up 300 stairs and walked 500 miles, I noticed that I was yelling warnings pert-near the whole time, instead of enjoying the views of the great, glorious nature that God has given us.

While I was shouting out ominous opportunities for children, I thought to myself, “Let’s record this.” So I did. And it took several takes and we never got it right. But here they are, and remember, they weren’t born actors. They had to work at this…really hard.

Hey, be careful climbing trees!
Hey, careful for roots!
Hey, don’t touch the mushrooms! They might kill you!
Hey, don’t get too close to the edge!
Hey, watch out for loose rocks!

I’d love to say that no children were hurt in the process, but I’d be lying. My son injured his finger faux-falling out of a tree. He’s fine. My daughter, in one of the videos above, faked a fall but ended up hurt and scuffed her arm while her brother was “saving” her life from a long tumble. She’s fine too. Resiliency is a fine thing in children. Laughing about it helps (yes, I did check to make sure nothing was broken–No, I did not have a first aid kit…They’re fiiine).

As you could see from this high-tech videographing, we had fun, we didn’t spend close to enough time rehearsing, and we didn’t spend any money on props. Low-budget filming at its finest.

I’m afraid to take them back hiking again. I’m scared it’ll be another version of cautionary tales and too much idle time standing around waiting for them to learn their lines. And even more time yelling Take 2 or was it 3?! If we do this again, I’m afraid they’ll want perfection, and well, that’s simply not me. And frankly, perfection is not them either.

They are messy, and not the best listeners, squabblers among siblings, and terrible child actors. But I love them, and they’re mine. And dammit, I’ll probably take them hiking again.

So if you are ever at Whitewater State Park and hear some shrill voice shouting “Take 12!”, that’s me. And you’ll find my kids hanging off branches that don’t break (so no lesson there) or tripping over roots (even though they were warned) or, worse yet, getting too close to the edge of a cliff (Don’t grab my hand! I said my forearm! It’s a better grip!). Feel free to join us and bring some reinforcements. Apparently, child actors need “breaks”.

Family

In case you weren’t aware…

Black and white stick-on tattoos are only cool when they aren’t on your child’s neck.

In our case, my son was given a stack of fake tattoos and found the best one to portray him as a 10-year-old felon. He made sure no piece of that tattoo was left on the paper. He probably had a soaking wet washcloth plastered on that thing for a good 60 seconds before he peeled it off, leaving a perfectly tatted neck. This thing was placed with skilled precision. On the side of his neck. On his birthday. Right in time for pictures with his cake. All that was missing was a teardrop tattoo.

First picture. Go ahead, zoom in. Take a closer look. It’s worth it.

And here’s the picture once I realized what we were dealing with. Just a smidgeon of his past peeking out from behind his carefully placed hand.

But, my god, even as a birthday felon, he sure is cute.

I found him, not long after snapping those pictures, in the lavatory with yet another sopping rag scrubbing his skin red trying to get it off. Per dad’s request.

I don’t know what his wish was when he blew out his candle, but I was wishing hard that his future was not going to be one behind bars. Only toddlers look good in stripes and cheap flip-flops.

Happy Birthday our little faux-felon. Enjoy double-digits.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

A turtle’s spine is straight up the center of its shell. Therefore, their shell is literally their backbone.

So when you drive over them, you’re pulling up to the oldest highrise in America, with its glittering, flickering letters spelling out A S S H O L E, the air thick with distaste, and the cloying smell of douchebag.

Don’t be a jerk, if you want to break a back, yo mama’s, step on the sidewalk cracks like everyone else.

Family

Pedal Pull 3.0

At our local town’s festival, along with other towns, suburbs, and cities across America, there is an event for children of nearly all ages. Starting at four years old, and up to the ripe age of eleven, children can engage their vastly different-sized legs to travel the longest distance while pedaling a mini-tractor pulling a weighted trailer.

A weekend or two ago, my daughter signed up (well, I printed her name and inked my John Hancock) to pursue her week-long dream of garnering her third 1st place trophy for the Pedal Pull. She had been successful at ages 5 and 6 and was betting she could pull off another win. She had just finished walking the parade route for her softball team, which we all considered a great warm-up, and was sitting on the sidelines (err, sidewalk) waiting her turn.

They called her name after the 4, 5, and 6-year-olds were finished, and she walked towards the tractor with a smile a mile wide and dimples on her cheeks. Her entire family (cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings, parents, and grandparents) were rooting for her. She hopped on that tractor and pedaled her little heart out. Just when we thought she had nothing left in those legs, she pushed those pedals around one more time for a total length of 24 feet and 9 inches!

We cheered, and she walked away from the announcer and tractor knowing she had done her best.

When all the seven-year-olds had completed their turns, the top three were announced. Third place…who cares, Second place…not our kid, and First Place…Three-time champion Fiona!

Up she strolled, to the tractor placed at a perfect angle for picture taking. She whipped her leg over the seat, sat proudly, and smiled with glee for pictures. Atta girl. Making your dreams come true.

Her aunt and uncle offered to host her for the upcoming State Pedal Pull Championship during the Minnesota State Fair, but she’s young, and competition may be stiff, so we will wait until she has more trophies under her belt before we send her north.

Who knows? Maybe she will be pedaled out at the tender age of eight.

In the meantime…she’s busy admiring her trophies and dreaming of next year.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

Yelling “Let ‘er rip, tater chip” to your youngest son during a baseball game, while he is up to bat, is, once again, frowned upon.

Apparently, one should stick to “You got this!” and “Keep your eye on the ball!”, and “Good eye!”.

Frankly, baseball can be a pretty boring sport to watch, so sprucing it up with other choice phrases seems appropriate, but alas, I was wrong.

P.S. I’m the assistant coach, third base coach, statistician (bookkeeper), and dug-out mom. Personally, I feel with those credentials and my pay (nothing), I should be able to throw in (pun intended) a dash of delight here and there. No?

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

You know when the gnats and bugs are eating you alive, or at least torturing you with their incessant kamikaze attacks, flying into your nose and mouth, when you are trying to live some semblance of life outdoors? There is a lovely, cheap, homemade solution.

No longer does one need to keep their arm stretched in the air (like you just don’t care!) to attract the gnats, nor do they need to slap and swat, cover their face with clothing, or rattle off expletives like they are a sailor in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

No sirree Bob! Grab yourself a spray bottle, add in some vanilla (used for baking) along with water (it’s called diluting), and spray away.

Keep that bottle handy, spray everything you have, and begin your outdoor adventure.

Side note: I do not know if this remedy will keep away June bugs, but if it is July or August, or any other month but June, they won’t be out anyway.

And now you know.

Family · This and That

A water hose

Yesterday I spruced up a wicker rocker. It had been painted black a summer or two ago, been sat in and rocked a million times, was stored in the barn during winter, and now looked disheveled and half dead.

It needed a fresh paint job, but first, it needed a bath to get off the dirt, cat puke, and cobwebs.

The hose was handy, so I turned it on full blast and situated the chair a good 15 feet from the porch. The hose is one of those space saver kinds that shrinks when it is empty and expands when the water is on, which still doesn’t give you a strong blast and top speed, but we only needed to have some force to clean off the chair so it was going to have to do. I get busy and what do you know? Here comes a child. Apparently, a child cannot resist the sound of water coming out of a hose. She probably heard the squeak of the water spigot being turned on. “Can I do it?”

Ugh, there goes the job! The 10 minutes I’d take will now be at least 20 minutes, and someone will get wet. No doubt about that.

I let her, because A) she was helping! and if I turned her away, another offer from her would be slim to none, and 2) I knew she would have fun.

So I turn the hose over to her, she focuses on the chair, and is getting it relatively clean. Impressive. I see her focus the stream on the seat of the rocker and yell, “You’re taking the paint off!”. She stops and turns around and says, “There is cat puke there!”. “Oh,” I say. Thwarted. And then I felt like Wayne and Garth and said, with Garth’s twisted mouth, “Spray on”.

Once she was done cleaning the chair and it was sitting in the sunlight to dry, she morphed into a kid again. She checked to see how far the water could go if she had her thumb covering half the opening (pretty far!), she checked to see if the dog was waterproof (he is not), and she checked to see if she could see a rainbow in the mist (she could).

I finally had to huff and trudge to the spigot and end her fun. My god, how had I gotten so damn wet!? The water petered out and so did her smile. It was over. I had a clean chair, she had her fun and we all know that will NOT be the last time she gets her hands on the hose.

I’m a strong believer in water being really fun, especially from a hose, ONLY if you are the person holding that hose. The power you have! Don’t want to get wet? Let me see how close I can get the spray to you. There is a bike sitting close by? Let me wash the whole thing because I saw a speck on the seat. Don’t mind the giant splatter coming back at you or others!

She’s a kid, I get it! Eventually, I’ll learn to hand the hose over and get the hell out of dodge. And throw a towel out for her when she is done. And thank the good Lord we don’t have city water, AKA a giant bill. But when the well runs dry…nah, I won’t let it get that far, but in the meantime, spray on, little girl, spray on.

As soon as the chair was dry, I got out the spray cans and got to work painting the chair black (again) and finishing it with a clear coat. Every shake of the can, with that dang ball clicking and clacking in there, was an announcement to her, and I was hoping the tv volume was up too high for her to hear it. The hose is one thing, but spray paint? Ab-so-lute-ly not. I’m kind, not dumb.

I got through the task of spray painting the chair with no helpers, and while I’m writing this, I’m rocking in that chair, and each creak I hear is a reminder of the help she offered, the fun she had, and the relief I felt when I finished the project…solo.

She’s sleeping now, early-ish still, but when she wakes, she will notice there is a pile of dirt and wood forms ready for cement. She will get excited at the prospect of another project and will want to help. This time, I’m not in charge, but I’ll have to tell her to take it easy on the crew. This’ll be fun to watch.

About me

I’m not one to brag, but…

Gosh, you guys. I didn’t realize turning forty was going to bring great things! Word on the street: Turning 40 is one foot in the grave. Bones creaking more, eyesight diminishing, muscle wasting, and cold weather wreaking havoc specifically in arthritic areas, making you write a list of the pros and cons of moving to a warmer climate. My daughter thinks forty is old, and I was beginning to believe her along with the street walking dooms dayers! I’m nearly 41 and I thought I’d be picking out headstones and epitaphs. Turns out, I just needed some good news to turn “Over the Hill” into “Queen of the Mountain”.

Forty years old and my annual check-up is right around the corner. The Annual appointment is, well, annual, and isn’t new, but the accompanying lab order sure is! A CHOLESTEROL PANEL!

This morning I was kindly stabbed and my life’s source of vitality and strength was removed from my bulging vein for testing. The anticipation of those results in my online portal was remarkably high, and I received an email just a few minutes ago and the results are in!

I mean, look at this!

Slightly grainy; in my haste to capture my results, I couldn’t wait for a screenshot from my phone.

Here’s where I talk myself up a little. I am not one to brag, as I said above, and this makes me just a little uncomfortable, but not enough to put a muzzle on it. My results, ahem, surpassed the “normal” category, and shot into the “optimal” range, which, if I say so myself, is quite remarkable! I can’t remember the last time I inadvertently aced a test without trying! Even better than that, I don’t eat very healthy so I’m shocked that my results are this good! Thank you Mom and Dad for good genes I guess!

If you see me walking around with my shoulders back and my head held high, now you know why. Being forty with great cholesterol is a whole new feeling. If you’re in my age bracket, you should add this to the joys of turning 40 and spreading the news. With all the negativity surrounding this age, we have to have something to look forward to, and what’s better than something that is virtually unseen by the naked eye?

Well, a lot, but that’s not what this post is about, is it? No, it’s about my divine results and being proud of my age.

Gosh, I still can’t believe it. (insert printer noises) (now a tape dispenser) (picture me walking to my bathroom mirror) (now me taping it up). This copy should last until my next cholesterol check in 5 years. Might have to redo the tape, but it’s up for my viewing pleasure, and to remind my husband, in case he forgot, that even if my weight is fluctuating, my cholesterol numbers are not.

Until next time,

Mrs. New Outlook on Life.

Family

Cue Willie…

On the Road Again, by Willie Nelson. Fits perfectly for the words you’ll read. My favorite parts are the clapping in the full version. I daydream that perhaps it’s not my two hands coming together, but my hand meeting a kids head. This may be used for dire situations, nothing less. (I’m kidding! Don’t sic CPS on me for Pete’s sake!)

In 2020, before Covid hit, we decided our kids’ Christmas gifts were going to be a trip to Florida. This was a big deal for them, as it should be. A) I don’t know about your state, but money in Minnesota doesn’t grow on trees, and 2) our yearly family trip prior to that was a long weekend away to Wisconsin Dells which is only 2.5 hours and one state away from home. This was going to be a road trip through many states and a week at the beach.

We love to see the positive when planning a trip, don’t we? Why in the heck do we block out the negative possibilities? We know that at least a small percentage of the undelightful crap we conjure up WILL happen.

For example, My husband and I, when deciding to rent a van instead of flying, only thought of how great it was going to be to spend such uninterrupted quality time on the long trip! Gah. We didn’t let ourselves see further than that. Idiots! What we really had was uninterrupted quality time for the first hour. From then on we experienced “normal” life. Kids arguing about individual space, being bored and hungry, dead electronics, and worst of all, asking 8.5 million times, “Are we there yet?” in some form or another. And no one thought to pack duct tape. What we were thinking? Oh yeah, of the pure bliss. We forgot about the other side of the coin.

Rookie mistake.

We ended up having a great time. (Yes, there were some hiccups but that’s life, right?) The white sand beaches, the trolley that bumped down the roads to little souvenir shops and eateries, the beautiful sunrises and sunsets from the beach, and being able to look out across that big, expansive ocean and wonder about the life below.

Three years later we have decided to try another long-distance family trip. We took a hiatus from big expensive vacations because A) see A above, and 2) traveling long-distance during Covid was enough “excitement” to last us three years.

Destination; Orlando area. Close to all the touristy commotion and maybe an hours ride to the beach. It’s a compromise for all. The teens love the beach; the younger two love the commotion. Mom and Dad are clearly the chauffeurs.

Flights are expensive for a family of six, and it would be regarded with disgust if I flew and let my husband drive solo with the rugrats. Also, I’m pretty sure they don’t allow 7-year-olds to lap sit during the flight, but please confirm, if you will. That could be a game-changer. I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind her on his lap for 3+ hours. So, like last time, we aren’t flying.

This year folks, we are going with…drum roll please…a transit van. One step up, maybe two, from a creeper van. This has plenty of windows and seats ten passengers! Check her out! The picture is from kbb.com and my expectation is renting one very similar (fingers crossed we don’t get a doozy!)

With that much space, I don’t want to hear a peep from any child of mine about their siblings being in their personal bubble. I’m going to assign seats; one in each corner of the van with all our luggage in between them. If I’m really good with my stacking, it’ll topple over on the one trying to break through to enter another’s domain. Take that you winged spawn of sa-tan! (“Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls” for you non-movie buffs from the 90s.) No, my kids really are not the spawn of satan, but sometimes, even I wonder.

So come October, we will be off to drive highways and byways, reliving memories from three years ago and making new ones.

Wish us luck, and clip and send any coupons for duct tape. This time we must be prepared.

Family

Another page…

Today’s chosen suggestion from the book “The Story of My Life”: “Describe your first car you owned. How did it come into your life, and how did it change your life?”

A delightful mini-van, not even close to being as classy as ours, in a setting also not even close to being as classy as ours.

Do you remember the AutoTrader? Back in the day, it was in print, not online, and you’d flip and scan each page searching for your dream car, truck, camper, motorcycle, or mini-van. Most likely, you’d find your beaut, show your parents which one you want, and then go wash the ink off your hands. P.S. They didn’t say yes to the car. Today, you can surf the web, and within seconds, buy your car and have it delivered. My, my, my. Times have changed.

My first car was actually not spotted in The AutoTrader. It was spotted in my Granny and Gramps’ garage, purchased either with an I.O.U note or possibly cash and driven 100 feet from their home to our driveway; they had upgraded and my twin sister and I finally had some wheels. Since we were pert near attached at the hip, we were to share a vehicle too. A Plymouth Voyageur circa some year in the 1980s. Well, that’s what the outside of the driver’s door proposed, but Dodge Caravan was printed inside so…she had some body dysmorphia.

That mini-van drove well at 55mph and hummed at 80-90. When riding together, I’d have my sister turn and look out the giant rear window while I moved the steering wheel left and right, again and again, while we laughed and watched our own comedy unroll, all while hoping that our vehicle didn’t, ummm, roll. We were successful. No accidents during those skits called “Watch this!”.

She may not have been a fancy Lotus, but she sure cornered like she was on rails (Thank you Julia Roberts AKA Vivian Ward). We aptly named her the “Screaming Bitch”. Ahhh, the memories.

A mini-van for your ride as a high school student may have bumped us down the “Cool” ladder a rung or three, but we didn’t care. We had freedom. Well, kind of. There were rules like two weeks of being grounded from driving if we didn’t wear our seatbelts, and mom was an eagle eye. It only happened a couple times and since my sister and I shared the car, the Law Breaker just had to ride shotgun while the Angel drove. You know, the Angel who loved making the van sway back and forth by cranking the wheel left and right? She didn’t know about that, but my guess is neither one of us would have been driving for a month if she did. Another rule, and the last one, ask before you go and let Mom know the destination and time of arrival home. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

The Screaming Bitch and we sisters became good friends, great friends really. The cool mornings and the sweltering afternoons after school, the glare ice and slushy snow in the wintertime and the maroon fabric bucket seats really brought us together. She handled our country roads like a dream, fit so well into our circle of friends, and without her, we would have been begging for rides to school from our sister or riding the bus. Living 40 minutes from our building of learning (surrounded by farm fields), and having a van allowed us a life.

I can’t remember the length of our relationship with the Screaming Bitch, memories have faded with time, but on a summer night many years ago, our time together ended.

That night, bad decisions were made and she met her demise in a ditch north of town. Soon after, her care was transferred to my Uncle. That day, I remember clearly; my uncle rolling into our drive hauling a trailer under a hot Minnesota sun, while I watched from the front step of our house slowly scanning The Autotrader, turning the pages with ink-stained fingers. She was probably going to be sold for scrap. Dammit. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. We loved her though and think of her often. She and her wheels are a well of laughs and we will always remember her dearly.

R.I.P. Screaming Bitch. May every heavenly road you travel be long and straight so you can sway and hum to your heart’s content.

This and That

Ex-communication

Recently my debit card was closed because of fraud. This has happened a time or two before, and, well, let my bank inform you of the matter.

I can’t even believe it, but the threat seems legit. “Above-average number of fraud cases”? What is average?! Then they tell me there are “many things” I can be doing to “safeguard” my card. They listed 4. I wonder which nuggets of wisdom they left out.

My favorite is the third bullet point. “Protect your PIN number”. Dammit, I gotta quit blurting out that 4 digit number! I mean, COME ON! In reality, I don’t even know the dang thing! I was so baffled by this letter that I threw it away. After I told my friend about the impending ex-communication if there was another fraud case, we laughed and talked about framing it. I got home today and dug in the nearly full garbage can and pulled it out. Hence, the discolored and wet areas. Gross.

I get that fraud is bad, but I’m not understanding how it’s my fault. Perhaps they need to up their fraud control!

So now I’m on the search for a new bank. I need to have a backup plan in case my money gets booted to the curb and my card gets cut up.

This and That

Where’s the burn barrel?!

I think the company I work for is the LAST facility in Minnesota to doff masks for good. It’s been a long time coming and while our faces were still covered by blue paper masks, our neighboring peers’ faces were full of smiles. They had been mask-less for at least three weeks before us!

Even though it took us longer to get to this point, I’ll relish not having to rebreathe my own air for 8 hours a day, and not having mascne (acne from the mask) or extra oils clogging my pores. Gross.

Some patients can’t help themselves and comment stupid crap, such as, “Ugh, I can’t breath in this thing. How do you do it?” and “You know **** (the other hospital in our area) doesn’t have to wear them anymore. When are you guys gonna get rid of them?” Well, A) we don’t have a choice and when you don’t have a choice, you become accustomed to the situation, and B) we follow the CDC and MDH and blah blah blah.

What one really wants to reply to these folks is not even close to kind words but one must remain professional (insert finger wag).

May 1st, May Day, is going to be a wonderful historical day for our Health Care workers. We have been wearing masks for 3 years! THREE YEARS! The days of Covid, masks, and extra PPE, along with fear and anxiety, seem like such a surreal period of our lives. I’m glad it’s over.

Monday I’m going to be seeing full faces and wondering who the heck are they!? I probably will need several seconds for my brain to make the connection.

I’ve gotten so good at reading people by their eyes only, which is a good skill set to have, but now I’ll have to reign in my facial expressions. They’ve been hidden for such a long time, and now they’ll be in the open. Yikes. I am very worried about that. I love using my face to express myself for all types of emotions, and honestly, most expressions are automatic and out of my control!

Welp, I’ll keep an empty box by my desk for my belongings just in case my face gets me into trouble. If that happens, will you be a reference for me?

About me

A Page from The Story of my Life

I bought a book, ohhh, I don’t know how long ago, called The Story of My Life; If A Story is in You, It has to come out.

The pages aren’t numbered and are nearly blank except for a suggestion printed at the top.

I chose a random page for today’s blog: “The first time I had to speak or perform in front of a crowd.”

Now, I don’t think this is my first time speaking in front of a crowd, or maybe it is, and it isn’t my first performance, but it is memorable.

The course was English with Mrs. Hill or Hall? It escapes me now, but she was an old curmudgeon. Short and squat, with meaty forearms and a fashion passion for iron-pressed house dresses. She ruled with a strict grip on correct grammar. She made an impact on me, and I truly enjoyed her class. Whether she enjoyed having me in her class was never determined.

We were tasked with writing a paper and my subject was the singer, Madonna. Our class had to read aloud our presentations using props that correlated to our topic. I wish I still had this paper, but really, the words weren’t what made this historical anyway.

As you may, or may not know, she grew up a good girl, went to a dance school, and got into singing. Probably transitioned from a backup dancer into a star, but I don’t really remember and I’m not going to research it at this moment. Just take my word for it. My “truth” can’t be that far off, right?!

I spoke about her childhood, where she went to college, her trials and tribs, her successes, and what she was known for. She was big in the 80s into the 90s.

Anyway, I continued with my speech, probably talking too fast due to nerves, adding a little of my own flare to the story, and rethinking the ending.

Side note: During the 90s she had a tour called Blonde Ambition and she had steamy videos on MTV. You may recall she wore a teddy (you know those lingerie nighties) and had a cone bra. Perhaps there wasn’t a skirt on the teddy and instead had her leotard or whatever north of her hip bones. Either way, she was making history with this outfit. LOOK, I googled.

Can you guess what my props were?

Back to English class.

Now my lightbulb hadn’t turned on until pert near the presentation’s due date, so my props were shoddily constructed. Regular notebook paper in a conical shape with paper fringes still hanging off the side ripped out of my 5 Star (yeah right, 5 Star notebook, my mom bought recycled notebooks in bulk). Real classy, Amber.

I read my essay and at the end, with Like a Virgin playing loudly in my head, I raised those cones and placed them right over my b-cups. The teacher’s jaw dropped along with my grade.

Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t get into trouble, or perhaps I did but have repressed those memories. I had no choice but to accept my grade; any chance I had at a solid A had been thrown away with the rest of my dignity and the paper fringes.

But alas, knowing I followed in Madonna’s footsteps long before anyone else did, makes my heart sing. Who knew years after that essay was written and read, other celebrities wanted to be like me?

Lizzo
A picture from the US Sun.

Their designer must have had better materials than me though. Wouldn’t you say? If only I had more time back then…

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

There’s a fine line between wearing the new trends and time-traveling back to 1998. For me, I just can’t do it. A great year of my life, but I don’t need a repeat.

And you? Toe it wisely.

And if your toe slips? Gah, I hope you pull ‘er back before it’s clothed in chunky heeled canvas shoes. But then again, perhaps you can pull it off. And in that case, niiiice. Slightly jealous over here, but count me in when silk shirts make a come back.

This and That

Dry skin dust cloud

So yesterday I helped out in a sister department. I’ve worked in this department a handful of times when they needed an additional person to help room patients, clean rooms, help the docs, etc. I can tell you, this short shift (half day) was less eventful than the other times.

For starters, I didn’t have to draw up any medications. I’m totally capable, and enjoy this task, but none came my way. Shoot. Secondly, I didn’t have to help anyone take their socks or shoes off. Now, this is exciting. Let me tell you why.

Perhaps you have worked in a nursing home or helped a sweet old lady or gent get naked from the ankle down. Perhaps not. That’s okay. I’ll try to be as descriptive as possible getting you up to speed.

The older we get, the drier our skin becomes. Whatever the reason may be, people get dry feet. I get it, mine are dry once in a while. I just lube them up with some lotion and voila! Sandal-worthy! Sometimes it gets hard to reach our feet. Sometimes we don’t think about our feet too much. They are sturdy, capable of keeping us upright, ugly but there, right?

See where this is going yet?

I dread only 2 things when working in this department. Toenail clippings and dry, flaky skin. Both are guaranteed.

If a patient requests assistance from yours truly, I must be of assistance. Need help taking your shoes and socks off? Here let me. No? Okie dokie! (escape hatch, now!- lest they change their mind). Yes? Hmm, okay.

All I’m thinking about while peeling off Ted stockings or socks are, “Wonder how bad this is gonna be?” Let me tell you why. If you have dry skin on your feet, and they haven’t been given any TLC, that dry skin is now stuck to your stockings or socks and has also been loosened by said stockings and socks. What do you think is gonna happen when the sock comes off? I’ll give you a hint. Those flakes are not glued on. You better be on your toes to dodge that snow globe of skin cells. If you are in the drivers seat of removing the tube sock, you can at least control (slightly) where that foot soot is gonna land.

Goal: Keep it out of your hair and mouth. Lesson learned real quickly during my first shift in this department; after this shift it looked like I had dandruff. Gross.

Tip: Close your mouth and breath shallow (or not at all).

I know, I know. Some situations are out of the patients control. Perhaps they’ve been diagnosed with a foot disease, psoriasis, or have diabetes. I’m not ripping on them; I’m informing you of my day.

There is a plan of attack though and it’s not pulling on the toe of the sock and ripping it off. Here’s why. The dry, flaky skin is not just on their foot, but sometimes also traveling half-way up their leg (that’s a big area of real estate). So the best approach is to go slow from the beginning of the undressing. You can roll the socks down, or slowly banana peel the top down while pulling on the toe seam. Continue rolling and then slowly pry and pull off. Slooowwwwly. Stuff the sock in the shoe.

P.S. You should be wearing gloves. Up to you, but barf if you don’t.

It seems whatever method you decide to use, there will a sprinkling of flaky, dry skin, but the cloud size is impacted with the manner chosen. So choose wisely. NOTE: It is NOT appropriate to have a vacuum cleaner on, pointed toward their foot and sock during the extraction. Once the sock is off and the air is clear, you are welcome to exit. Don’t think you are done yet, though. There’s Part II to this daymare.

Cue the clippers! Nail Care Time! This phrase deserves beginning capital letters, believe you me.

I love getting a pedicure. Stay with me here. Soaking my feet in hot water, gussying up the nails and their beds and removal of dry skin, feels so good. And the polish! What a treat! This appointment for our patients is not a pedi. This is straight up toenail clipping, but still a treat for them. Most patients coming in for nail care can’t reach to do it themselves, or the nail is too thick for your dollar store clippers, or they are diabetic which makes nail care done by a professional very essential. One wrong clip could lead to a large infection.

Once the Doc is done, and the patient is gone, it’s time to clean the room. Your normal basic cleaning of chairs, computer mouse, etc. Prior to that though, you have to clean up the dry skin that flaked off during the removal of socks and during foot care PLUS the clippings and the tray used to catch the clippings. And we all know when a toenail gets clipped it doesn’t just fall south. That pupper can wiz off in any direction at a fast clip (lol, clip, get it?), getting lodged in fabric chairs and onto the floor.

They have the type of broom and dustpan that fast food chains use so at least I don’t have to squat or kneel down to the pile of detritus. Broom it right in, Sir! Cough, Cough, not too fast, Sir! The only positive about still having to wear a mask, I guess, is not breathing in any particles!

Now that Room 1 is clean, George just left Room 3! It’s an endless cycle really, and I’d love to tell you that the more I completed this task, the more desensitized I became. But I’d be lying. It doesn’t get easier, but at least I don’t gag during the task anymore. So there’s that!

Let’s end this on a positive note. Your feet do a ton of work for you, so please treat them kindly or ask a loved one to help. They deserve it and you do too! Plus, our brooms are wearing out.

This and That

Umm, Sir?

I’m going to give you a scenario to think about. Let’s say you are scheduled for an injection for back pain. Position of your body: lying on your belly. Location of injection: slightly north of your buttcrack. Uniform to wear: grippy slippers, a hair net, your skivvies, and a gown.

Now, here’s my question that must be posed.

Why the hell wouldn’t you wear underwear to that appointment?

Hear me out, I understand some people go commando on a daily basis. I can’t understand that personally, as I would expect mad chafing, but I get it. Unders can be constricting and you are a free spirit and all, but, dang it, dig deep into your clothes drawer and pull out something to cover yourself! Granny panties, period underwear, swimwear, I don’t care!

We don’t want to get a sneak peek into your man or lady bits as you’re traipsing down the hall with your gown flapping because you couldn’t figure out the ties! Nor do we want to assist in getting you into position for said injection to get a flash of your cheeks or worse, your dangly things down yonder. I’m begging you, find some fabric.

And for Pete’s sake, if we offer you shorts, accept them! We didn’t sign up for THAT! Not in our pay grade, Sir! Not on our list of Nursing Responsibilities, Ma’am! NEVER something we look forward to!

I’ll tell you about a traumatic experience for one of our young gals who I work with. She was hit straight on (vision line!! Get your mind out of the gutter) while a man, who had the deep voice of the devil and nads the size of a 2000lb bull, situated himself on his back, knees up, for knee injections. She visibly was shocked by that eye full and threw her body out of the sight line. Trauma was written clearly on her face and that poor girl spent the rest of her shift in shock. She’s gonna need months of therapy to assist with that searing sight.

Now, most of the patients do wear underwear which makes the flashes of flesh that much more surprising. We usually don’t know when it’s coming. Sometimes we get a heads up from the gal who roomed the patient, but if you have ever driven by a car crash or a train derailment or something similarly life-altering, you know that it’s difficult to peel your eyes away from the destruction! Same thing here. There are days I wish I was blind or wearing bilateral eye patches.

Our team can only hope that we don’t have a hospital gown pageant anytime soon, or ever. Our luck is the contestants would be those who didn’t think to slip on some cotton briefs or did but didn’t think they needed to keep them on even after we walk them through what stays and what goes prior to getting changed. Lord, help us.

On the other hand, there is always the option of misinterpreting our instructions and putting the gown on backward…

Well, I think I have all my bases covered. Dont forget yours if you find yourself in the doctors office. If not, warn a girl, will ya!?

Family · Farm Fanatics · This and That

Fur and Feathers.

Meet Trixie and Dixie. Our Barnyard bandits. The Dastardly Duo. Just kidding, these two are sweet as pie. Although in the picture below, they look quite serious, like they are determining the best moment to ram their rock-hard horns to knock me on my butt. It looks like Trixie has made up her mind (devious), and Dixie isn’t re-thinking Trixie’s proposition.

Trixie is the pygmy on the right, beautifully tri-colored, and Dixie is the beautiful black, half-fainting (but never has), and half-pygmy Goat Queen on the left (Thank you Captain Obvious!) Dixie is the leader of the duo and is much more comfortable with the human touch, while Trixie is skittish but tolerates us when we have treats. User.

How did we choose such great names for such cute, little goats? Let me tell you the tale. I don’t know when it first started, but my twin sister and I made up these personas called Trixie and Dixie. We make our bottom jaws recede and use a different voice with lip-smacking noises, made worse by the excess saliva build-up. We are aware that twins do weird things…this is one of them. And no, I don’t know if I’m Trixie or Dixie. That’s part of what makes it so funny (to us anyway). I’d add a picture of the original T&D, but it isn’t really a good look.

Over the years, Trixie and Dixie are just fun “people” we bring out, and surprisingly, or not, wit and intelligence exude from them. So when my husband and I decided to get two goats, it made sense to me to pass on two great names!

The chickens and the goats share space in our barn. The goat pen is the first area and on the back end of that is an enclosed chicken coop. The chickens can come and go through the empty screen on the coop’s door, but the goats cannot get into the chickens’ abode. If they get in, and they’ll try as soon as the door is opened, they will knock over the hanging food dispensers while trying to eat all the food. If you aren’t careful when gathering eggs you’ll find yourself with hairy company. ”Trixie, go on! Get out!” and “Dixie, I told you once already!” Man, they know how to put me on high alert.

In the nicer months, from when the snow melts and the grass is lush and green to the time when the air is crisp and the leaves are falling, the animals (and children) have free rein on our land. Trixie and Dixie stay pretty close to home, with the chickens on their heels, and will run back to the barn when they get spooked or hollered at when they are eating my plants. And run they do, along with kicking sideways and jumping around. Such nimble creatures they are. Super cute too.

Fiona, my youngest, and I did evening chores last night and we spent time loving on those goats and one of the chickens; the others wanted nothing to do with us. But if the chickens don’t hunker down in a posture that is considered docile, you won’t be seeing me chasing them trying to get my hands on them. They run around like chickens with their heads cut off (guffaw). Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Meet Fancy and Fiona.

Fancy, our friendly chicken (I’ll be honest, all the brown chickens I named Fancy because I can’t tell them apart) was such a good sport and tolerated being held. Now Fiona on the other hand was too chicken, err, nervous to pick her up so Fancy was transferred by yours truly into her waiting arms.

My most recent purchase from Amazon is a red collar with white polka dots for Trixie and a blue and white striped collar for Dixie. Once they arrive (come on, come on, come on), I’m going to acclimate the goats to them. It’s a new feeling for them, and the goats will wear them for short periods, but my goal is to take them (or they’ll take me) on walks.

I’ll keep you posted. If you don’t hear from me again…send a search party. The goats are strong and fast.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

For parents out there that are not up to date with text-speak, you are not alone. NGL, it’s hard to keep up, but TBH, once you get the slang down, it gets easier to decipher what they all mean. Clueless Kelly over here giving you tips. Take ’em or leave ’em.

To be honest (TBH) and Not gonna lie (NGL) were the last two my kids let slip, and boy, did I have a hayday! My daughter was pretty embarrased of my joy over using TBH and NGL in one sentence. Her cringing just eggs me on. WALIA. (What a loser I am – Just made that one up. It might stick).

NGL, this teen texting business is over my head. I’m taking notes as soon as my kids let slip what some of these letters mean, but TBH my notes app is nearly empty since they don’t use slang when texting me (which I’m grateful for in some ways). I used NBD today when texting my sister. I was pretty excited because I thought I had made it up, but I just googled it and lo and behold, I didn’t. I’m just so behind the times, LOL.

My text-speak IQ is pretty low, so keep me posted on ones! Use the comment section below. Maybe I’ll be the one to introduce them to new ones.

WTBS? (Wouldn’t that be something)?

Oooh, ‘Scuse me while I text my daughter… I bet she will be impressed. BRB.

EDIT: Welp, WTBS actually means “With that being said”, but I like my version better.

TTYL!

Family

Hold em or fold em

When I was a kid we spent lots of time at our grandparents’ house. We utilized the same driveway and our houses were about 50 yards from each other. It was divine.

I remember eating Pringles and playing card games (exciting to eat name-brand chips!). This is where I learned to shuffle the deck and make the cool bridge each time. This is where my siblings and I learned basic card games like Kings in the Corner, Crazy 8’s, Hearts, and two different versions of Solitaire. This is where we learned to be graceful losers and humble winners (most of the time).

Grandpa and Grandma loved playing cards. When Grandpa would discard, he would hold the card with his thumb and pointer finger’s second knuckle, make a fist, and pound his hand down while letting go of the card. If the card was a five or if he was betting 5, he would say “niCKle” instead, with extra pronunciation on the “ck”. I still imitate him with that word. Makes my heart sing.

Playing card games has been something I’ve also done with my kids. You only need a deck of cards to play for hours. And with the good ‘ol world wide web, you can learn hundreds of games (that’s a guestimate).

Last weekend, Fiona played Kings in the Corner with my mom, her Grandma, for hours and she reveled in it. She knew how many times she had won and that it was more than Grandma. We came home and kept playing.

All four of my kids are home for the Easter Weekend, and after going to the mall, girls getting their nails done, boys hitting up the book store, a game of four-square, and lots of squabbling, I pulled out the small wooden briefcase full of red, blue and white poker chips I found on a garage sale, and asked if anyone wanted to play. One is NEVER too young to learn this game, ammi right?

After a few rounds of face-up cards and walking through what beats what, and how to bid or check, the cards were then dealt for the real deal. And after about an hour of five card draw and Texas Hold-em, they’d had enough. Actually, that was me. I had had enough.

They get so loud and laughy and jokes aren’t funny anymore. Basic sibling stuff, I know. Dad handed out some cash, and we sent them to town. That means silence, and me writing, for about 30-40 minutes. I wish for more, but I won’t get it, so I’ll be quick.

Even though I crab about the decibels, and the smart-ass comments to each other, and the mess the popcorn made on the floor because Addi (who’s 14 and should know better) decided to throw popcorn into her sibling’s mouths and subsequently not succeed, my heart is happy. My mind is tired, but having all four at home is fun.

I may have threatened them with false harm, and counted to three (nose to the wall if you hit three!) several times, but they know I’m more bark than bite.

We had a lot of fun and the little kids now have a new skill! I don’t know what I’ll tell the teacher when they find a circle of kids on the playground using rocks in place of money playing a game of Texas Hold ’em, but I’ll figure that out later along with how often they should attend Gamblers Anonymous.

Welp, they are home. Back to the chaos!

This and That

Passion, who has one and who doesn’t?

I’ve heard chatter about finding your passion. It must be a standard question when meeting someone. Once you get past the small talk of name, where you live, and what you do for a living comes the passion question (or maybe it’s just me – do I look passion-less or passion-full about something unsaid- am I oozing passion from my pores and just haven’t recognized my passion?).

So…What’s your passion? Welll, (Long silence) I’m passionate about saving worms from flooding rains, salamanders, and birds. You?

I’ve been searching for my passion, and so far, I’ve come up empty. Color me green with envy for those who have found their passion.

Now, I complete tasks passionately, but I’m not necessarily passionate about the task. Get my drift? I’ll clean my house with passion, but cleaning houses for a living is not my passion. I can organize rooms with passion, but being a professional organizer is not something I’m passionate about.

But I have questions and thoughts.

What if someone hasn’t found their passion? Maybe they don’t have one? Are they less content with their life without a passion? Can we stop searching for passion at some point in our life?

I think some people have a passion and some simply do not. Those who do not enjoy life in dozens of different ways. Not that those who’ve nailed down what they are passionate about don’t, but our main focus (those with no passion) is simply enjoying life. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about child hunger, toy trains, and cures for cancer; it simply means maybe we haven’t been smacked upside the head with cancer, haven’t been hungry, or have loved a certain toy. Nothing wrong with that.

Does it mean we don’t sympathize with those who’ve encountered and endured those things? No. It may mean we don’t have empathy because we haven’t lived it, we haven’t worn your size nines, but we are sympathetic to those in need, or those looking for answers, or those in love with toy trains.

I think when we continue to maniacally search for something that may not exist for some, it becomes disheartening and slightly depressing. This is when we should take stock of our lives, determine our happiness on our own personal scale, and stop comparing our lives to others.

I guess what I’m saying is…be happy where you are, enjoy those life’s little moments, and if you’re not happy, keep searching. Your passion could spring up and bite you in the ass. I hope you recognize it for what it is. (Pssst. Not a snake! That’s passion!)

Family

Lloyd is that you?!

A picture recently popped up in my phone’s memories. It’s of my two oldest kids and my husband all gussied up for Easter in 2012. My son would have been six and a half years old, and my daughter would have been three and a half. Oh, the memories. My daughter has asked me not to include the picture so I’ll respect that. My sisters, on the other hand, and further into this delightful read, will not get the same treatment. Muhahahaha.

After I had verbally exhausted my thoughts (“Ahh, look how small they were!” and “That shirt must have just come out of the cellophane Amazon wrapper.” and “Her eyes are closed!”, I sent my kids the picture. My daughter replied with an “Ewww”, and my son responded, “Who screwed up my do?”. I told him Great Clips, but maybe it was, well, me. It was a long time ago and I honestly don’t remember, but I had to agree with him. It was pretty bad. Poor kid.

Over the weekend, I showed my mom the picture, which she loved, and then I hit her with the zoomed-in portion of my son’s head. It catapulted me back to when I had the same shoddy bang-up (haha) job in fifth grade. By the looks of it, I wanted to mimic Tim the Tool Man’s son, JTT. How I lived through this, I do not know although I can guess it was by simply keeping my head above the tears. She thought she could find the picture of my nightmares; instead, she found, after searching no less than three different areas of her house, a box of prints from the 80s and 90s. The box was full of pictures, many I had seen, most I had tried to forget. Either way, she uncovered a slew of comedy that hadn’t been seen in years. For a good reason, I think.

How embarrassing looking back. Maybe that’s why we don’t do it too often. Who wants to experience those feelings of inadequacy again? Not me, yet into the pile of photos my hands went. We sifted through and found some shareable humdingers.

Jury, please review Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

I mean, COME ON!

My younger sister’s response to Exhibit A was, “WTF am I? The Easter Bunny?”. I could hardly tell her no.

I and my sister’s hairstyles were in tune with our peers during the late 80s and early 90s (I think, maybe). When I was little, hair was not a big deal; my mom kept it neat, styled, and out of our eyes. But once I hit fifth or sixth grade, awareness sucker punched me with the clippers and raked me with the comb. My hair was still out of my eyes, thank you, but it was also pert near my hairline and perfectly horizontal. I’m 100% certain haircuts were doled out by my mom and P.S. She was not a Licensed Cosmetologist, but she sure did try to be.

She had four daughters, all with longish (sometimes) hair that required 90s upkeep. Curling irons were hot in more ways than one. Wonder how many we went through – we had a lot of bangs. I do recall a friend of my mom’s giving us permanents though, so she knew her skill level and kept within her own boundaries.

Perms, mullets, and Lloyd Christmas bangs, oh my. And the close-cropped locks? Who thought that was a good idea?!

Check out these atrocities.

Exhibit B.
Exhibit C.

Why she had a cropped haircut still baffles me (Exhibit C). My twin sister thought maybe it was in a ponytail and the little sister responded, “Really?!” I read the tone of that text with incredulity and exasperation. There was no ponytail! It was a nice thought though. What you can’t see, below her home-sewn romper that soared in popularity during the 90s (maybe), is her ankles which are cinched with romper material. Nothing sliding down and out that romper-clad leg!

In a nutshell… Our. Hair. Was. Atrocious. The outfits, understandable.

We couldn’t have been the only family that had less-than-desirable hair. I do understand this was a long time ago and times have changed (clearly). Children the same age today are not even in the same league as we were back then. (I am quite certain you’re able to deduce that same conclusion.) Yeah, you’ll come across a few here and there that could be mistaken for 90s girls living in today’s world, but overall, they really are an anomaly.

So now that you have had the pleasure of time-traveling to the 90s, feel free to display your beauts in the comments. Show me I’m not alone. Please. I’m begging you.

Misery loves company, even 25 or so years later.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

Wearing suspenders underneath your shorty-sweatshirt is not cool…or allowed. My fourteen year old says so.

I was cool enough for her to sneak a picture though, before I was forced to remove said suspenders.

She’s showing her friends the picture. Now there’s laughter.

Ahhh, I think I misunderstood her reasoning for picture taking.

Hope my pants don’t fall down since I have no reinforcements. THAT will be really embarrassing for her (and me).

This and That

A Classic Camera

Last August, my sister and I were enjoying what we love. Thrifting. On our way to the register, we both spotted a Canon camera in a Ziploc bag. If I didn’t buy it for $20, she was going to. So I bought it. what a steal!

A digital camera with two different lenses, a nice shoulder/neck strap, and its original user manual? What a bargain!

It was all that but digital. It was your classic 35mm camera. Still, for $20 I bet I could utilize this just fine.

So I spent a small fortune on the film and tried it out. The joy in NOT knowing if your picture actually captured what you wanted?! Exhilarating! And slightly depressing knowing how much you spent on that film, and more depressing to think about what it might cost to get said film developed.

Back in the day, you’d bring it to Walmart or your local drugstore, pay for the prints, and wait a week to pick them up.

Today, you choose a website (m-pix for me), pay almost $12 per roll (jeez), send it in (find the correct sized envelope, tape on the mailing label after dragging your printer out of storage) and wait a week to get them back via email.

But the journey into film land has been worth it.

While I search for film money in couches, old stored-away jackets, and my husband’s wallet, and once I get through the lengthy process of ordering and receiving them, I’ll share more.

In the meantime, enjoy some of my favorites.

I gotta save up my money for the next 35mm I buy, and once I get through the lengthy process of ordering and receiving them, I’ll share more.

This and That

Was it you?!

I’m just going to rant a bit here. I know it is March and St. Patrick’s day was about a week ago but I have a question. Maybe several.

WHO DECIDED THAT IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA TO HAVE OUR HOMES AND CLASSROOMS VISITED BY A MAN IN A GREEN SUIT LEAVING CHAOS IN HIS WAKE?

I’m talking about the fad (that’s hopefully fading) of parents and teachers encouraging our kids to A) make a Leprechaun trap, and B) expect their personal or classroom chambers to be excitedly terrorized by a Leprechaun who leaves in his wake gold coins.

I know this is based on Irish folklore; whoever captures that pesky Leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Eve will be made a millionaire (in a nutshell).

Why are we setting our kids up for the sad truth? Pretending Leppy is on his or her way to leave gifts for our children? Come on.

This rant is also for the person or persons with the bright idea of Elf on a Shelf.

I’ve got plenty to do without having to figure out shenanigans for the Leprechaun or Elf to be getting into. Plus, I’d be the one picking up the mess that just hours ago I had created, in hopes my kid would, what, believe in Leprechauns and Elves on Shelves? Why?

I have a feeling that our kids wouldn’t be missing out on anything if Leppy hadn’t been brought in to back up the folklore. What happened to a story being just a story? We don’t need to act it out. My youngest woke up on St. Paddy’s day and found not a mess made by Leppy, burst into tears, and was completely bummed that he didn’t visit our house. She was so rocked by this that I feared she would miss the bus. I had to shove back the words I really wanted to say (It’s fake!), and lovingly tell her that “Maybe he visited your classroom instead!”. Well, he didn’t do that either she told me after school, while she bawled again. I finally told her that the teachers make all those messes and that Leppy doesn’t visit anywhere!

Take it easy, take it easy. I was very aware of the slippery slope I was on. I say too much and she won’t be believing in Santy Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. But I couldn’t let her believe that she may have done something wrong to miss out on that. I mean, she even scoured the basement looking for gold coins.

I know we want our kids to enjoy their childhood, but I think they will still look back and find many, many great things. I see no reason to bring another fictitious character into it. As I said, moms and dads are already loaded down with responsibility. Now we are supposed to remember another date and the eve to go along with it, spend time making a trap, wait for the kids to go to bed and fall asleep, and then set up a giant lie? No thank you.

I have two sets of children. When my oldest two were the only children I indulged them with Elf on the Shelf, mostly because it was a gift from their Grandma. Their dad had one and I had one so it was something that gave the children some normalcy and tied their parents together. When the next two came along, I was looking forward to packing away Snoopy and did so for a year or 2. Man, I really enjoyed NOT having to remember to move him around the house daily. I should have brought him to Savers. Gah! But last year or the year before, my oldest daughter found him and started the “tradition” again.

And I get it. To her, seeing Elf on the Shelf is sentimental and her memories of this go way back. So despite my opinion of Snoopy the Elf, essentially she trumps it.

But getting Leppy on my back? Not happening.

Back in my day (my kids hate when I say this), I think we celebrated St. Patrick’s day by wearing green and my mom would slater cinnamon rolls with green frosting. Doable. Fun even. This is just taking it too far.

What’s worse? Combining them…

Reinventing Elf to be something more…

So to whoever thought any of this was a grand idea? It is not.

(Bows and steps of soapbox)

Thank you. (minimal clapping, sparse even)

This and That

App-solutely app-alling

How much time do you think you’ve lost perusing apps? Playing games, scrolling social media, reliving moments with pictures and videos, shopping, email…shall I go on?

Personally, I look forward to my kids’ bedtime (anyone else?). Ideally, I use the next hour or so to relax, enjoy a little downtime, and then hit the hay. Reality? I grab my phone and tap an app, and dang it, I’ve lost track of time. How I didn’t notice my eyelids dropping is beyond me, but here we are! Well past my bedtime. Don’t laugh…you have a bedtime too.

It’s just so easy for time to slip away. These game companies know what they are doing making you wait to build up more lives. I toggle between games while my fake lives regenerate; from planting crops and feeding animals to word puzzles and back again. When I’ve exhausted my brain power I close out those apps and start anew with others, AKA social media. The crap that pulls me in…I should be embarrassed. Worse, I’ll reference things I’ve seen; “Yeah, I saw this reel or short or whatever they are called, and there were these…yada, yada, yada.”

But, I did see Kermit the Frog on this all-white bed and it cracked me up. His stick-thin legs with his feet crossed, and his head behind his arms, just lying back relaxing. It was a meme about…Wait, I’ll just show you. I’m going to go find it.

Welp, I couldn’t find it.

And I just lost more time and now it’s past my bedtime. Tell me I’m not the only one to experience this madness.

This and That

In like a lion, out like a lamb…

I think the whole dang pride of lions might have eaten the lamb. Winter in Minnesota can be brutal with weekly winter warnings, blizzard conditions, terrible road conditions, and bone-chilling cold. On the other hand, it can be beautiful with fat snowflakes, snow days, hoarfrost on the trees, and if you are bundled up correctly, wonderful snow activities to partake in like skiing, snow tubing, ice fishing, and snowmobiling. My favorite activity in winter is none of the above though. Give me a good book and a blanket, and I’m set. But one can only read for so long, or crochet so many washcloths before it becomes monotonous.

At this point, I, along with, I’d gander, about 90% of Minnesotans, are over it. Completely. And utterly. Over. It. I’m over wet snow pants and boots on the soggy entryway rugs, smelly gloves, scraping windshields, bundling up within an inch of my life, and the cold. I’m ready for spring and about to call the safari hunters to take care of the Lion problem.

Also at this lull between seasons, I’m googling photos of spring flowers, budding trees, and thermometers showing digits in the 70s. I’m staring at my house plants, so close I can see their variegated stripes, and requesting in a sing-songy voice for them to send plant waves to their cousins outside and 3 inches under.

I’ll give them another week or so before I take more drastic measures.

It’s not just the mess that winter brings, it’s also the impact on mental health. By this time of year, I feel like Johnny stewing at The Shining Hotel. Granted, he was very isolated and married to Olive Oil so I’m not seeing the same outcome in my future as he had, but I can relate.

My Vitamin D levels are wonky; I’m sure of it. We have short days and even shorter periods of seeing, feeling, and enjoying the sunshine and daytime hours. I leave for work when it is dark outside and when I walk outside after my shift, there is more darkness. It’s depressing! It doesn’t help I work on the lower level of our medical Center but that’s neither hither nor thither.

On a brighter note, I spotted some robins late last week and when you see those orange (rust?) breasted birds you know that even though Mother Nature may be messing with us, they are not (take note, Punxsutawney Phil!)

Soon we will have muddy roads, puddles, dewy mornings, and sweet blessed sunny days. I’ll ignore the wet boots and mud-covered clothes on my soggy entryway rug because, well, that’s just part of spring. It is essentially what I asked for, right? Spring at its finest.

Today is the first day of Spring and it was beautiful. Don’t let the date fool you.

I think at least another 12 inches total will come our way.

If I’m going to be wrong, which doesn’t happen often (scoff, I’m kidding), let it be this. Please. I’m begging you Mother Nature.

Family · This and That

Grab your rollerskates girls and press play on this mood-setter.

Now that we have background music, let’s head down memory lane.

Do you remember when rollerskating was popular? The 70s? A portion of the 90s? When I was in 7th or 8th grade, a few friends of mine, driven by a parent, would pile into the car and trek 30 miles to the nearest skating rink to roll around and around in the same direction for an hour or two. Man, those were the days. Skating with your girls to Meatloaf ballads? I would give anything (eh, eh?) to do that again; but I won’t do that.

The old armory was the place to be on those Friday and Saturday nights. Flirt with the boys and skate with your girls. The memories were so strong today that I pulled out my sweet find from Goodwill, a decades-old pair of rollerskates with no insoles, and brought them to our barn. I was looking forward to it. It’s been snowy and cold (really in winter in Minnesota? Guffaw) and the chilly, but large-spaced barn was calling my name.

Now, the barn isn’t the best place to skate but it would have to do. The upstairs area is mostly wide open with only nine or so giant posts taking up space and patio furniture is stacked up near the walls. The floor is plywood and isn’t even, the unevenness increases the complexity of staying upright, but it’ll work for a thirty-minute sesh.

My daughter grabbed her JoJo Siwa skates and together we were off. I cranked up a 90s channel on my big-ass radio and prayed for some Meatloaf to serenade me and my skates. It didn’t happen. Meatloaf didn’t come on but Sheryl Crow did and I felt nearly like my old 7th-grade self.

I tried to stay in tradition by going one way only, but there were a few obstacles left by my children that forced me to change direction, and quickly. Those same obstacles that I so deftly maneuvered caused my daughter to fall several times, but with some encouragement and “Girls don’t cry!”, (kidding, I scraped up some compassion from my nearly empty bucket) she was up and rolling again.

Around the thirty-minute mark, my dogs were barking and needed release. It was time to put the skates away and don my boots again. As I closed up the barn, I flipped the switch on memory lane.

If you are ever in the area, bring your skates and we can open ‘er back up again. This time I’ll bring my Meatloaf CD.

Family

Left behind

Ahhh, more snow. Just what we needed here in Minnesota. Instead of being grumpy about it, and with the kids out with friends, my husband and I decided to enjoy a snowmobile ride. He the driver, me the passenger. He with a helmet, me with goggles and double neck warmers.

Let’s get you seeing what I’m seeing. Fresh snowfall, at least 6-8 inches of the white stuff, with more coming down. It had a snow globe quality, you know the big fat snowflakes that could quench your thirst if one landed on your tongue. Beautiful scenery. Pines and oaks, walnut trees in rows, hills, and valleys. Just beautiful.

The trail, well you don’t necessarily need one with a snowmobile but I recommend it, leads around the property, traverses between the trees, down some hills, around frozen water holes, and, eventually, leads back to our house. Ryan, my husband, took a small detour and gently gripped the brake as we steered down into a valley. It’s one of my favorite places with a giant rock wall above a dry stream bed.

We sat and enjoyed the view for a while and I shared my thoughts on this exact spot being perfect for a campsite. He with the helmet nodded and I hoped he had actually heard me. I do want to camp there this summer.

So off we go to head back up the hill and this is when the joy ride ended. The incline out of this valley is pretty steep. Don’t ask for an angle, please. I can just tell you it is steep and your legs will burn hoofing it up said incline.

We got stuck.

We bogged down due to the snow and both had to get off to move the snowmobile onto the snow-packed path. We decided that he should continue alone so as not to get bogged down again. With no additional problems, he makes it to the top. In the meantime, I’ve been taking step by step by step up the valley to the top where he is waiting. ever so patiently with the engine off. It was taking THAT long!

This trek left me winded. I needed a good 5-7 minutes to catch my breath after that. What can I say? Cardio is not my forte.

Back on to finish the ride and well…this video says it all.

Remember he has a helmet on covering his whole entire head, and to be able to hear me he has to turn sideways so I can yell into the facemask portion so there is NO WAY he would hear me yelling “Come back!” or “Hey I’m not on!”. So I didn’t. I didn’t shout a word. But I did mutter under my breath.

After I waited for ten minutes and he hadn’t returned, I walked back. He did find me by following my tracks but nearly had a nervous breakdown thinking about what could have happened to me (the scenario of me falling off because I had a heart attack was my favorite catastrophe he came up with), and we have had many laughs about this escapade of ours.

Here’s a trail cam picture capturing him completely clueless that he is riding solo.

I’ll be thinking twice about agreeing to another ride anytime soon. I’m still traumatized 😉

Family

Who are Hoss&Weasel?

Well, well, well…who do we have here?

Hoss and Weasel, you say?

Who the heck are they?

Let me tell you about it while I grab a beer. Just kidding, I don’t drink.

When my twin sister and I were little, we were nicknamed Hoss and Weasel but not one family member can tell us why.

Per the dictionary, a hoss is a horse. Which I find quite rude to call someone. You talking bout size? How dare you! But I do like horses; they are one of my favorite animals. Soft with a face full of whiskers, strong, and adept at sensing emotions. My sister is all of that, minus the whiskers.

And the weasel. Those sneaky little buggers. Slinky creatures who kill more prey than they can eat- sounds greedy to me. If I think back to my childhood, I may have been sneaky once or twice and may have had eyes bigger than my stomach. Not so much as an adult.

I’ve always dreamed about utilizing this weird combination as a business name or, what do you know, a blog! Over a year of ruminating on how, when, and what to write about, and all the ins and outs of blogging, I’ve finally done it. It’s such a great feeling to accomplish this step.

So let’s get to it!

– Weasel

Weasel and Hoss