The funny thing about work is that you have to show up every day for it. And the funny thing about having to show up every day for something is that you can't possibly look (or feel, for that matter) your best every single day.
Last year, it was the Amidala Eyebrow Incident. This year, it's hives.
And they're all over. Legs, arms, feet, hands, stomach, back, shoulders, neck, face. Everywhere.
Last weekend was the big family boating weekend up on Lake Superior, and apparently I found something in the pure nature of the Northwoods that didn't agree with me.
I'm sorry for the pouty attitude, but I'm too itchy and too tired from 4-hourly doses of Benadryl to laugh at myself much right now.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm in the final episodes of Gossip Girl, Season 4, and I just have to know if Chuck and Blair get together at the end. (How I wish I were joking)
Showing posts with label Wisconsin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wisconsin. Show all posts
Monday, August 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Novel in Eleven Parts
If I were to write a novel, in parts, detailing last Friday’s*** adventure , it would probably look something like this:
Part One:
In which Mother and I embark on an iconic road trip across Southeastern Minnesota. Prior to departure, I debate for 4 minutes over which book to choose for my third. First was Persuasion, second was a lighter read on loan from Mother, and third was eventually determined to be This Way for The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's important to have genre and tone balance amongst one's road trip book choices. And it's important to bring three books. You finish one, you spill a hot beverage on one, and you're still set.
Part Two:
In which I do not read one page, but instead feel the same excited thumping in my chest I felt ten years ago, when I last visited Pepin, Wisconsin***.
***A note on Pepin, Wisconsin: Laura Ingalls Wilder was born there. Hence the heart palpitations.
Part Three:
In which I discover that I am too tall for log cabin doorways, in which my excitement turns quickly into a lump in my throat that must surely be deep emotion at seeing (once again) the birthplace of one's childhood (and present) idol.
Part Four:
In which I force Mother to traipse through a local cemetery looking for Ingalls relations. Here will be a dramatic moment in which I think I spot something. I race towards a marker in the distance...(anticlimax begin) only to realize mid-Julie-Andrews-leap that the tombstone is much too glittering and grand and new to be what I'm looking for.
Part Five:
In which we break for pie. Literally. I had peanut butter, Mother had blueberry. Just guess who chose the tastier slice.
Part Six:
In which we visit the disappointing local Laura Ingalls Wilder museum. After several minutes of pawing through unconnected junk, I finally venture to ask the romance novel reader behind the counter if there's anything that actually belonged to a member of the Ingalls family. Pointing a scraggly finger, she says in a scraggly voice,*** "Two quilts at the bottom of that display case." We look, and there they are. One is rather plain (faded navy and white), but one is beautiful and green and yellow and patchy and looks as though it had been made out of little prairie dresses, all cut into pieces (which, of course, it probably had been). It belonged to either Laura or Rose, and it's strongly suspected that Caroline made it.
***Note: I did marvelous impressions of this lady and her voice all the way home, to much acclaim. Since I can't be with you now to repeat my performance, you will simply have to imagine it. Hint: The Nanny minus the funny plus about a thousand cigarettes plus some grey hairs minus enthusiasm plus bitterness at having to man a dusty old museum day after day. Plus annoyance (her romance novel looked riveting).
Part Seven:
In which Mother and I continue our journey, winding along the St. Croix through hippie towns and unincorporated towns and cult towns and unincorporated hippie cult towns.
Part Eight:
In which we arrive in Red Wing, Minnesota, and attend a production of The Sound of Music in the beautiful (yet stifling hot) Sheldon theater. The thing about seeing The Sound of Music live is that you can’t very well fast forward through the dreaded “Climb Every Mountain" Scene. Gosh, I hate that song. It’s very inspiring, the actress performed it beautifully, and yet, I was practically rolling around in the aisles covering my ears and humming. How I hate that song.
An entertaining part about the play was that at a few different points, Reverend Mother’s skirt (robe?) got caught on the edge of her chair as she stood. Both times I waited breathlessly (okay, okay, eagerly) for the chair to be dragged down with a deafening crash, but her skirt always pulled off just in time.
Overall, it was a good play. Maria was fantastic. The children were cute (although Friedrich wasn’t a creeper! Amelia, I know we’ve discussed this in the past, but the next time you watch The Sound of Music movie version, keep your eye on Friedrich. He’s always standing awkwardly close to Maria, and he’s always trying to edge even closer.).
Part Nine:
In which we exit the theater, sucking in deep, cool, buggy breaths of night air. As we walk along the sidewalk, an open-air Jeep rumbles past. Over the rumblings, just barely, we could hear the driver and the passenger singing “Do Re Mi” with gusto.
Part Ten:
In which we hurtle home through the dark in The Black Beast (as our van is affectionately known). In which I am reminded of how lit up and beautiful St. Paul is at night, and why when I was little I used to force myself to stay awake whenever we drove through on our way home from Christmas Programs or Grandpa's house. How wonderful everything is at night.
Part Eleven:
In which we arrive home, and Mother promptly uploads the day’s photographs to Facebook. In which I groan inwardly as I see her do this. In which I decide to suck it up and be a darling daughter and say nothing. We make fun of Reverend Mother instead.
***Note: I did indeed begin writing this post last Friday. Obviously it’s taken me a few days to conjure up the masterpiece you are now reading. Sorry.
***Note: (Before you search, I should tell you that there aren’t any stars above that refer you to this note. I needed to write one more, though.) I apologize for the tense changes in the above ‘masterpiece.’ Someday I’ll go through and correct them. But not tonight.
***Note: A final note: I don't call my Mother "Mother" in real life. "Ma" when we tour log cabins. "Mommy Dearest" in bookstores. "Mom" in public. But never "Mother."
Part One:
In which Mother and I embark on an iconic road trip across Southeastern Minnesota. Prior to departure, I debate for 4 minutes over which book to choose for my third. First was Persuasion, second was a lighter read on loan from Mother, and third was eventually determined to be This Way for The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's important to have genre and tone balance amongst one's road trip book choices. And it's important to bring three books. You finish one, you spill a hot beverage on one, and you're still set.
Part Two:
In which I do not read one page, but instead feel the same excited thumping in my chest I felt ten years ago, when I last visited Pepin, Wisconsin***.
***A note on Pepin, Wisconsin: Laura Ingalls Wilder was born there. Hence the heart palpitations.
Part Three:
In which I discover that I am too tall for log cabin doorways, in which my excitement turns quickly into a lump in my throat that must surely be deep emotion at seeing (once again) the birthplace of one's childhood (and present) idol.
Part Four:
In which I force Mother to traipse through a local cemetery looking for Ingalls relations. Here will be a dramatic moment in which I think I spot something. I race towards a marker in the distance...(anticlimax begin) only to realize mid-Julie-Andrews-leap that the tombstone is much too glittering and grand and new to be what I'm looking for.
Part Five:
In which we break for pie. Literally. I had peanut butter, Mother had blueberry. Just guess who chose the tastier slice.
Part Six:
In which we visit the disappointing local Laura Ingalls Wilder museum. After several minutes of pawing through unconnected junk, I finally venture to ask the romance novel reader behind the counter if there's anything that actually belonged to a member of the Ingalls family. Pointing a scraggly finger, she says in a scraggly voice,*** "Two quilts at the bottom of that display case." We look, and there they are. One is rather plain (faded navy and white), but one is beautiful and green and yellow and patchy and looks as though it had been made out of little prairie dresses, all cut into pieces (which, of course, it probably had been). It belonged to either Laura or Rose, and it's strongly suspected that Caroline made it.
***Note: I did marvelous impressions of this lady and her voice all the way home, to much acclaim. Since I can't be with you now to repeat my performance, you will simply have to imagine it. Hint: The Nanny minus the funny plus about a thousand cigarettes plus some grey hairs minus enthusiasm plus bitterness at having to man a dusty old museum day after day. Plus annoyance (her romance novel looked riveting).
Part Seven:
In which Mother and I continue our journey, winding along the St. Croix through hippie towns and unincorporated towns and cult towns and unincorporated hippie cult towns.
Part Eight:
In which we arrive in Red Wing, Minnesota, and attend a production of The Sound of Music in the beautiful (yet stifling hot) Sheldon theater. The thing about seeing The Sound of Music live is that you can’t very well fast forward through the dreaded “Climb Every Mountain" Scene. Gosh, I hate that song. It’s very inspiring, the actress performed it beautifully, and yet, I was practically rolling around in the aisles covering my ears and humming. How I hate that song.
An entertaining part about the play was that at a few different points, Reverend Mother’s skirt (robe?) got caught on the edge of her chair as she stood. Both times I waited breathlessly (okay, okay, eagerly) for the chair to be dragged down with a deafening crash, but her skirt always pulled off just in time.
Overall, it was a good play. Maria was fantastic. The children were cute (although Friedrich wasn’t a creeper! Amelia, I know we’ve discussed this in the past, but the next time you watch The Sound of Music movie version, keep your eye on Friedrich. He’s always standing awkwardly close to Maria, and he’s always trying to edge even closer.).
Part Nine:
In which we exit the theater, sucking in deep, cool, buggy breaths of night air. As we walk along the sidewalk, an open-air Jeep rumbles past. Over the rumblings, just barely, we could hear the driver and the passenger singing “Do Re Mi” with gusto.
Part Ten:
In which we hurtle home through the dark in The Black Beast (as our van is affectionately known). In which I am reminded of how lit up and beautiful St. Paul is at night, and why when I was little I used to force myself to stay awake whenever we drove through on our way home from Christmas Programs or Grandpa's house. How wonderful everything is at night.
Part Eleven:
In which we arrive home, and Mother promptly uploads the day’s photographs to Facebook. In which I groan inwardly as I see her do this. In which I decide to suck it up and be a darling daughter and say nothing. We make fun of Reverend Mother instead.
***Note: I did indeed begin writing this post last Friday. Obviously it’s taken me a few days to conjure up the masterpiece you are now reading. Sorry.
***Note: (Before you search, I should tell you that there aren’t any stars above that refer you to this note. I needed to write one more, though.) I apologize for the tense changes in the above ‘masterpiece.’ Someday I’ll go through and correct them. But not tonight.
***Note: A final note: I don't call my Mother "Mother" in real life. "Ma" when we tour log cabins. "Mommy Dearest" in bookstores. "Mom" in public. But never "Mother."
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A Griswold Christmas, or How My Family Blew a Gasket
First of all, Merry Christmas dear bloggers. I hope that your day is wonderful. We're only ten minutes into the blessed holiday and so far things are looking good.
I'm sitting on the couch in my Grandma's living room in pitch darkness. My sister is asleep on an air mattress below me, and the Christmas tree (small and fake as it is) sits somewhere ahead of me on a table. I can almost make out the silhouette of the thing against the pink outside the window.
Suddenly I am struck with an urge to put out milk and cookies for Santa. This task, besides being childish, would prove near impossible due to the lack of light and of cookies. Still, I hope Santa understands that despite the lack of refreshment, the nineteen-year-old sleeping on the couch has been quite good this year and deserves due reward. And her sister should get a little something too, I suppose.
I guess that you're wondering about the title of this post. It's a reference to the National Lampoons in honor of the very Griswold-y time we had actually getting to Grandma's house.
For starters, our van began overheating while we were driving on the freeway, about two hours from Grandma's. Luckily, there was an exit nearby, and we were able to just barely pull into the parking lot of a gas station/McDonald's before the van completely died. Dad went inside to buy some coolant, but upon pouring it in he discovered that there was a part missing, and that the coolant was just leaking back out.
Luckily (again) there was a mechanic on duty, and he walked out to look at the van. He promptly determined that something was wrong with the casket (don't ask me what that is, but it sounds like gasket, which I found funny), and that the problem would take days to fix. He offered to loan us a van (bless him), and went to get it from his garage and to put a dealer liscense plate on it. Technically, you aren't supposed to let people just borrow vehicles like that, but he told us that if we got pulled over for some reason, we should just say that we're taking the van 'for a test drive.'
When he came back with the 'rental' van, we piled all of our stuff into it. We had a lot of stuff, too. Two duffel bags each plus four laundry baskets of gifts, four pairs of snow boots, two backpacks, and two pairs of snowshoes. Dad joked that all we were missing was Grandma in the trunk (another Lampoon reference, sorry).
Finally we were on our way, leaving our van and the small town of Marathon, Wisconsin behind. I know this ordeal sounds like just some dumb car trouble, and maybe it was, but how lucky that our van began breaking down so close to an exit, and that that exit led to a gas station with a mechanic willing to lend us a van so we could finish our trip? Not to be cheesy, but around Christmastime especially, I think this qualifies as a minor miracle.
I should be off to bed now. Or off to couch, if you prefer.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
I'm sitting on the couch in my Grandma's living room in pitch darkness. My sister is asleep on an air mattress below me, and the Christmas tree (small and fake as it is) sits somewhere ahead of me on a table. I can almost make out the silhouette of the thing against the pink outside the window.
Suddenly I am struck with an urge to put out milk and cookies for Santa. This task, besides being childish, would prove near impossible due to the lack of light and of cookies. Still, I hope Santa understands that despite the lack of refreshment, the nineteen-year-old sleeping on the couch has been quite good this year and deserves due reward. And her sister should get a little something too, I suppose.
I guess that you're wondering about the title of this post. It's a reference to the National Lampoons in honor of the very Griswold-y time we had actually getting to Grandma's house.
For starters, our van began overheating while we were driving on the freeway, about two hours from Grandma's. Luckily, there was an exit nearby, and we were able to just barely pull into the parking lot of a gas station/McDonald's before the van completely died. Dad went inside to buy some coolant, but upon pouring it in he discovered that there was a part missing, and that the coolant was just leaking back out.
Luckily (again) there was a mechanic on duty, and he walked out to look at the van. He promptly determined that something was wrong with the casket (don't ask me what that is, but it sounds like gasket, which I found funny), and that the problem would take days to fix. He offered to loan us a van (bless him), and went to get it from his garage and to put a dealer liscense plate on it. Technically, you aren't supposed to let people just borrow vehicles like that, but he told us that if we got pulled over for some reason, we should just say that we're taking the van 'for a test drive.'
When he came back with the 'rental' van, we piled all of our stuff into it. We had a lot of stuff, too. Two duffel bags each plus four laundry baskets of gifts, four pairs of snow boots, two backpacks, and two pairs of snowshoes. Dad joked that all we were missing was Grandma in the trunk (another Lampoon reference, sorry).
Finally we were on our way, leaving our van and the small town of Marathon, Wisconsin behind. I know this ordeal sounds like just some dumb car trouble, and maybe it was, but how lucky that our van began breaking down so close to an exit, and that that exit led to a gas station with a mechanic willing to lend us a van so we could finish our trip? Not to be cheesy, but around Christmastime especially, I think this qualifies as a minor miracle.
I should be off to bed now. Or off to couch, if you prefer.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
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