My mother

When the Hatlady was little she was a handful. Her nickname was the Vitamin Kid.

When she was around three years old she bit my grandmother in the butt. When my grandmother asked about it my mom replied “Neil did it.” Neil was an infant at the time.

When she was a little older she made an attempt to cut off Neil’s tongue. The idea was planted in her head by something she heard at church, she was sure she was helping him. Neil had to go to the doctor.

When she was in elementary school two boys unscrewed the salt shaker lid and she poured salt all over her mashed potatoes. The lunch lady told her to scrape off the salt. At recess she punched on of those boys in the gut. They never bothered her again.

I sometimes think she got it all out of her system when she was younger, she doesn’t bit or cut or punch people anymore. She dresses everyday as if she were going to meet the queen of Sweden, she is rapidly running out of shelf space for all her books, and she is turning into a grandmother. But every now and then I see her stand up to defend what’s right in her life; her methods may have changed, but deep down she’s still the Vitamin Kid.



(But SB, I don't think she would go bowling with you, unless you manage to convince her it was a viking game recently discovered or something like that.)

Magic from my childhood, a tribute to my teachers

The journey to B and L's happened almost daily in the summer. By bike or walking, never in the car. Even when my mom would come with me it was never in the car. The decision to bike or walk depended on a few factors.

1) How quickly I had to get THERE.
2) How quickly I had to get AWAY.
3) The cats.
4) The weather.

If It was a lazy day and the hot, sticky summer boredom had set in it was usually a rambly walk. Mooing at the cows as I passed The Farm, stopping to pet the horses by the Quonset hut. Never going too fast.

If I was angry at anyone in the house it was a stompy, steam-blowing walk. With just the right amount of time to loose the bad mood somewhere between the Quonset hut at The Farm and the turn onto B and L's driveway.

If it was a day to be DOING something it was a hair-flying, legs-pumping, quick-as-possible bike ride.

If it was a lazy day spent on the deck with the cats, and the cats wanted more and more and more and more attention, it was a race-down-the-driveway-without-a-backwards-glance, over the hill and... coast kind of bike ride.

However the journey happened it always took the same route. Over county road 3; past the park with the communal bonfire pit that used to be a dime store; down the dirt road and past The Farm (waving to Chip, Jay or Aunt Marge); over the hill that opens up the view to B and L's.

There must be magic at the top of that hill. The anticipation grows because at the top of the hill the property appears. The goats, the grain sheds, the gardens, the studio, the house, and, depending on the year, the cats, Bozo or Hattie and Floyd.

My eyes would scan the property looking for signs of life, maybe L walking over to Clarence's or B in the garden or studio. At the top of that hill your eyes play tricks with you, you can't trust them. They tell you 'yes, they're home,' and 'no, they're not' at the same time. Seeing a vehicle doesn't mean anything, I would need proof. Proof in human form. Proof that the portal HAD opened for me. Ready to take me to that day's Adventure.

Some days it was sitting in the studio watching B throw pots for hours. Watching her hands as they expertly molded a lump of clay into whatever shape she had in her mind, as they painted bugs, birds, and patterns onto finished pieces. When I was little she would let my sisters and I paint clay tiles and she would fire them in the kiln. They would come out with the same picture we had painted on them, but with a glossy sheen that made it seem like the magic was something we could take home with us.

Other days it would be helping L with house projects. Any project would do as long as he was willing to have a tag-along helper. I learned how to shingle a house, drive a back-hoe, and put in tile flooring, all before I was 16. I could spend days following L from house to garage to Clarence's and back again, learning whatever he would teach me, hoping that at some point we could stop in the house for soda and snacks.

B and L moved to Idaho a few years ago, but their property will always be magical for me, the place where childhood always lives, where anything is possible and inquisitiveness is practically required. I hold the feeling of that property with me, carrying it so that when I need to be a child again I have the magic inside, easily accessible. Easily sharable with the people in my life who need to have a little bit of childhood given back to them. Magic stemming from two of the most important people in my life. Magic that I can share and pass on to the next children who need a little magic in theirs.

First birthday photos

A few photos, please stop looking now if you do not like incredibly cute babies.

Yes, we dressed her up like Yoda. We know we are geeks.

There was a birthday party

Last weekend was the party. It was, well, it was a party, for a one year old. I still don't get why it's such a big deal. Am I crazy, or is it everyone else?

It was exciting for Goosey, being at her Grandma's always is because there is so much new stuff to terrorize and get into. Like all the breakable things and collectible dolls that are all over the floor (yep, all over the floor. It takes eagle eyes to hang out over at the Shopping Queens house.)

Goosey made out like a bandit with the presents; toys, clothes, books, a collectible precious moments doll. Yes, that's right someone gave her a collector doll. When I opened the box I read the tag that said 'this item is NOT a toy...' and the advice began. "You should put her hairnet back on." "Keep the box, you ALWAYS keep the box for collectible items." "I gave Goosey's cousin one collectible doll every year until she was ten." "Our mom would let us play with our special collectible dolls twice a year." I had no idea what to say, I believe that toys are meant to be played with, not to sit on shelves. I pretended to really take the advice to heart, and put the doll back in the box. What else could I do with all of Mr. NH's family giving such great advice about it.

There was Pooh cake with pink icing, and not the good kind, but the stuff that tastes terrible. Goosey got her hands in it, but didn't like the sticky feeling. So rather than eat most of it, she flung it on the floor.

The most exciting thing, wasn't the birthday or the presents or the cake, but the dog. Goosey followed her around the kitchen in circles trying to pet her. It was a nice break for me.

The things that excited me most at the party included these conversation tidbits:

d: "Whatever happened to giving asexual toys to kids?"
s: "It's because girls need girl toys and boys need boy toys. Girls should be at home learning from the mother, like cooking and cleaning."
(I didn't say they were all good exciting...)

f: "Can you look at my foot and tell me what's wrong with it?"
Mr. Nh: "Ok, but is it clean?"

f: "Netty pots are messy and don't feel good."
m: "Have you used one?"
f: "No, but it sounds like it would be messy."
d: "S would be using one every half an hour if she got one, she always has sinus problems."
s: evil, evil glare to her husband d.

me: "Goosey, you want to hold your cousins hand?"
cousin: "I'm not holding her hand, too much frosting."
a: "Wimp."

And the conversation with the Spiritual Mother about the final transition of changing from calling her son Rachel/she to Trey/he. I could see Mr. NH's aunt trying as hard as she could to pretend like she wasn't listening to the conversation. She is a staunch christian who believes in everything the bible says, especially about marriage and lifestyle 'choices.'

It was a nice enough party, but I am so glad that it's done.

One year old Yoda girl.

My amazing sister

My older sister, Storysmith, is an amazing storyteller and writer. She has a blog and you should l check it out and bug her until she posts more stories. You'll also get to find out secrets about me when I was little, but don't believe everything she says. She is the older sister and they don't always get the story straight.

www.alchemystoryworks.blogspot.com

Climbing mount coffetable

Mr. Not Hideous and I rearrange the apartment again. It was the third time we did it this year. The first time was in January when we first moved in. We didn't plan it out well. The second time was right as Goosey was starting to crawl, we didn't want her to burn her fingers on the radiator. This time we had to rearrange because Goosey apparently wants to be a gymnast, so she tried practicing her air-born somersaults. Let me explain.

Last week Goosey decided to take advantage of her incredibly sleep-deprived parents. She started climbing on everything. And by everything I mean the coffetable.

I like to think that if i hadn't been so sleep-deprived she wouldn't have gotten up there, at least it wouldn't have happened over and over and over and over again. And maybe if I hadn't been so tired I would have been the Queen of Distractions, singing funny songs and finding the perfect silly face to stop my little mountaineer. But I was tired. In my tired haze I made a bad decision, I chose to let her be on the coffeetable while I sat with her to keep her from scooting off. It was my moment of weakness. It set the standard for all future climbing exploits.

Goosey happily played with the books and dvd cases that were stacked on the coffetable. She was content to sit, and as long as she was sitting I wasn't too worried. In my tired haze I made another bad decision; I turned to put the wipes away.

It took two seconds. She stood up, tripped and flew through the air making a beautiful somersault landing face first on the heater vent, legs pointing away from the coffeetable. THUNK.

She cried, I held her and put arnica on her small bruise and watched to make sure she didn't get a concussion. Mr. NH took her back downstairs to see the chiropractor for the second time that day. And she was fine, bruised and out of adjustment, but fine. And she stayed off the coffeetable for about six hours, then it was back to climbing, climbing, climbing. So we had to change things.

It took about two hours to get everything moved into a safer play area. Unfortunately, I know that when she figures out how to climb on the couch we will have to rearrange things again. Great.

She really is too young to be a gymnast, but try telling her that.

One year on Saturday

The Goosey-girl turns one on Saturday. I'm excited.

Now I think most mom's are excited about the birthday party. You know, the one where there is a theme and some kind of cartoon shaped cake. Like cookie monster, Dora the explorer or Thomas the train. The party where every family member has been sent invites weeks in advance with a card to send back the RSVP. The party where weeks or maybe months have been spent planning, decorating, and worrying about how it will go. But not me.

I don't understand those birthday parties. Why all the fuss? No matter how many photographs you take the child won't remember it. I know turning one is a big deal, but for me, not big enough to spend that much money on it. I would much rather have the big party at five or ten.

Goosey almost wasn't going to have the big party, and honestly if it had been up to me, she wouldn't have. Maybe we would have done something special, but not THE party. But we are having THE party. Mr. NH's mother, Shopping Queen, is hosting, and taking care of ALL the details. I only need to make sure the guest of honor gets there, and that excites me.

I have no idea what the party will be like, I'm sure there will be cake. I just have no idea if it will be in a special shape or if the party even has a theme. I don't know if there would be any relevant theme other than cats that Goosey would get excited about. She doesn't watch TV and wouldn't have any idea what was going on if Dora suddenly appeared on her cake. Goosey would just get excited for the frosting.

So what is getting me all excited for her turning one? The car seat. Yes, that's right, the car seat. Goosey turning one marks the much anticipated event of being able to turn her car seat around so that it is front facing! This may not seem like much, but, for the girl who doesn't like to drive more than one hour in the car, I'm hoping it will lengthen her tolerance for car trips. Hopefully, it means that driving the five hours to the Storysmith's for Thanksgiving will be easier; I don't want to have to leave at 4am again.

So, here's to the Goosey-girl turning one, and her soon-to-be front facing car seat!

My room of requirement and Mr. Shel Silverstein

Josie over at Sleep is for the Weak has started her own writing workshop. I love these, because it makes me write about things I probably wouldn't otherwise, or write them with a different twist.

Prompt #3:

If I had a room just for me in my house where time would stop upon entering it, well, that could be dangerous. I imagine it would be like the room of requirement from Harry Potter.

I would have a library filled with all the books that I've ever meant to read, and it would come up with suggestions for me based on what I like. It wouldn't come with a stuffy librarian telling me that I couldn't eat or make noise, but instead the librarian would just know what I wanted to read and make me snacks.


I would have a dance studio. A big dance studio. Not just a studio, but also it would have dance classes for me to choose from. If I wanted to take my favorite class, well, I'd just have to think 'Intermediate modern, please.' and the studio would fill with other students, the teacher, and live music. Or, maybe, 'afro modern' and Roxanne and students would be awaiting me.

There of course there would be the nap room. Comfy bed with just the right amount of pillows, and cats who cuddle but do not demand attention.

A room full of yarn and knitting needles, so that I would always have just the right amount of supplies to make whatever project I felt like. And I could just go in there and feel all the yarn, if you're a knitter I think you'll understand.


I could get lost for days in my room or requirement. Maybe it's a good thing I don't really have one.

Prompt #5:

How Not to Have to Dry the Dishes
by Shel Silverstein

If you have to dry the dishes
(Such an awful, boring chore)
If you have to dry the dishes
('Stead of going to the store)
If you have to dry the dishes
And you drop one on the floor--
Maybe they won't let you
Dry the dishes anymore.

I know this prompt was supposed to be making up my own cleaning haiku, but I feel that Mr. Silverstein perfectly describes how I feel about doing the dishes in general. (and yes, I know that this is not a haiku.)

Poor neglected crock pot

My crock pot has been on vacation. Since last winter. Last year it was making me stews and chilis and soups. It was great. I would make two meals at once, saving myself time in the evenings to spend with Mr. NH once he got home from work.

And then summer came, and we didn't feel like having chili or stew when it was 85 plus degrees outside. Who wants to eat something that makes them sweat when just going outside can do the same thing?

So my crock pot has been neglected, sitting on the shelf collecting dust. Waiting for the day when the air is cold enough for our bodies to crave warmth in the form of soup or stew or chili.

Time to dust it off, give myself a break and a nice warm bowl of split pea soup.

This post was inspired by #1 of Mama Kat's writer's workshop.

My sister

There's my sister, Storysmith, always telling me what to do. Now I know who I can blame my fashion sense on.

No water

It has been raining for a few days. Usually I like the rain, especially hearing it fall on the skylights, but when it rains for days it leaks, from the skylights. So, we've been living with buckets and mixing bowls placed strategically around the house.

The cats love it, they can get a drink in just about every room in the house.

I can live with water dripping in because the landlord says he'll caulk it... again. This is an ongoing problem.

The basement is flooded. There are about three inches covering the entire basement. This isn't really my problem, Mr. NH and I don't have anything stored down there, but it has lead to our water being shut off. Apparently a pipe burst in the alley between our building and the meat locker (that's right, I live next to a meat locker. One word of advice, if you ever live next to or park next to a meat locker, don't leave the windows of your car open. Flies.)

The city came and looked at it, they say that the landlord has to pay for the repair because the pipe it just on the wrong side of the magical line that says what belongs to who.

Until it's fixed we have no water. We have to haul buckets of the flood water upstairs so we can flush the toilet. We're living out of the damn buckets and mixing bowls. I guess I should be happy I like to bake and have so many mixing bowls.

I have a love/hate relationship with water right now.

How I met my best friend

We had to do introductions. We had to stand up in front of the other seventy people in the room and introduce ourselves. This may not sound like much, but I was nervous. All I had to do was to stand up say ‘My name is J., I live in Uptown, and I work at an internet business and I am a dancer.’

I couldn’t sit still, crossing and uncrossing my legs, moving my hands around. I kept repeating to myself over and over what I was going to say, as if I would suddenly get amnesia and not know who I was.

‘My name is J., I live in Uptown, and I work at an internet business and I am a dancer.’

If the leader had stopped the exercise before I had had my turn and asked me to name the last five people who had introduced themselves I wouldn’t have been able to.

‘My name is J., I live in Uptown, and I work at an internet business and I am a dancer.’

The whole room was nervous, I could see it on everyone’s faces. No one wanted to be the one to stand up in front of everyone else and get it wrong. No one wanted to be the one the leader stopped and dissected. No one wanted to be the one to have to repeat themselves. We all knew it was going to happen.

‘My name is J…’

My nervousness grew when my row was told to get in line on the side of the stage. Inching closer and closer to the stage as one by one the people in my row went, my heart was fluttering. I felt crazy, it wasn’t like I could forget, and they even had a chalk board in the back with prompts on it. I know who I am.

‘My name is…’

And then it was my turn. I stood in the center of the stage and gave my introduction. I looked at everyone; I spoke loud enough and stated who I was. And that was it. I was done, I left the stage and sat back down in my chair. I was done. Nothing happened, I didn’t forget who I was or make up some crazy story, or forget to look at the group of people I was introducing myself to. I had stood there and told them those few simple details of my life and then easily went back to my seat.

Afterward I was able to concentrate on who was introducing themselves and really hear names and look at faces, take in who I was going to be spending the next few days with. I heard what people did for their job or for life and where they chose to live. It was a completely different room for me. The atmosphere was light and easy. I could enjoy everyone else and what they were telling me.

‘My name is Mr. Not Hideous. I’m a massage therapist, I rub people for a living. I live in my friends’ basement in Brooklyn Park and I rent a five year old.’ He was funny. The room laughed, he was funny. And he was the one who got spanked by the leader. She dissected him, made him see how he was using humor as a way to distance himself from others. She wasn’t going to let him get away with that kind of crap, she made him do it again.

I thought thank god that wasn’t me. Poor guy, but I’m glad it wasn’t me.

this post was inspired by prompt #1 of this weeks writers workshop.

Blind dates and super heroes

I have only ever been on one blind date, and one was enough. It was years ago, and I don't really remember much about the evening or the guy. His name, well, he went by JR. and he was a car salesman. It was a double date with one of my High school friends and her car salesman fiance. I think we went to Chili's. Classy.

I tried. I remember asking questions about him, what else he liked to do, what he was interested in. I don't remember the answers, I only remember the return to car talk.

I think if you would have asked my friend or her fiance why they thought JR and I should go out their answer would have been that we were both single. We knew nothing about each other, and didn't find out much about each other. I don't think it helped that everyone else at the table talked about cars the whole time.

There was no kiss or hug, I might have shook his hand. We didn't exchange phone numbers. Basically, I wasn't interested, and I made it known. My 'friend' decided I must be a lesbian. (He's single, she's single, why else wouldn't she date him?)

One of Mr. NH's co-workers set him up on a blind date with her friend. They went out and had a nice evening. Afterward the co-worker asked the friend what she thought and she said "well, he's not hideous."

The co-worker tells Mr. NH this, and he decides that it will forever be his super hero name. "Chris the Not Hideous."

So, I'm a lesbian and he's a super hero. Fair, right?

The road trip that decided it

Mr. NH called me from his work last Saturday, "Do you want to go to Colorado?"

"Uh, yes!!!"

So, we started making phone calls to see who could watch Goosey for us for the weekend. This was a major road trip on last minute planning, fifteen hours each way, not something a ten-month old can handle. We called and called and called, and I had just about given up on the trip when he called back and said the magical words. "Start packing."

I was nervous, really nervous. This was the first time being away from Goosey over night, and we were going to be gone the whole weekend. I was panicky and really had to concentrate to be able to pay attention to what I was doing.

I over packed, for all three of us, I worried that I had forgotten something, and had to restart cleaning jobs that I walked away from as I remembered something else that I had to do. As we waited away the hours till departure time, packing and cleaning the house, my nervousness went away, not to return until the goodbye moment.

The goodbye moment came and went, leaving us child-free for a weekend, me nervous and excited, and 1,000 miles away from our destination.

We spent our driving time listening to Samantha, the voice from Mr. NH's younger brother's gps. Samantha was pushy, and didn't like it when we chose our own route or tried to program in a road we wanted to take. We made u-turns and shut her off. I think my next road trip I'll leave Samantha behind, she can tell someone else every 10 miles how many miles to the next direction. I think her favorite phrase is 'keep left.'

Mr. NH and I have been talking about moving out of Minnesota for the past few months, well longer than that. We decided that we want to move to Manitou Springs, Co. The only problem was that neither of us has been there, so road trip.

Reaching Colorado seemed to take forever, and once we did get in the state it seemed to take forever to be able to see the mountains. I had been reading aloud to Mr. NH while he drove, and kept stopping about every sentence to scan the horizon for the Rocky Mountains. When I finally saw them, that was it, no more reading.

I fell in love with the scenery in Colorado. The mountains are so beautiful, but I especially loved the rolling landscape around the mountains. Everything is exposed, nothing hidden. To me it feels like you have to be yourself there, you can't hide who you truly are. Different from Minnesota, where it feels like you can hide behind the corn fields and trees. Minnesota feels like a cocoon sometimes.

I also fell in love with Manitou. It has a small town feel, it is touristy, and has art everywhere. There was a mosaic on one of the underpasses. Just about everyone we talked to was from somewhere else, they had chosen Manitou.

We stayed for less than 24 hours, but it was worth it. We know we'll be back, we know we'll live there. It is the place we will have more kids, I will be part of the knitting group that meets weekly, we'll join in the weekly talks about the environment and sprituality at the local bookstore, and shop at the co-op. It will be home, just not soon enough.

Flashback Friday #2

This picture is from a camping trip up to Itasca State Park. Here are JB and I standing in headwaters of the Mississippi river.
The whiffle ball atop Jb's walking stick traveled from Massachusetts in My Communist's luggage to see the headwaters, Jb traveled from France, hopefully not in anyone's luggage.

This trip was the first time that I camped in a hike-in campground, I think it was 1.5 miles. It was amazing, we went to the headwaters, climbed the fire tower, and JB bought a giant jar of pickles when we stopped in Bemidji.

Is my brain the only one that works around here?

Every year when the school year would end and summer would finally come the hatlady could be heard saying "Is my brain the only one that works around here?" She says it was like we would come home from the last day of school and shut off our common sense, shut off the practical side of our brains. I never wanted to hear myself say that or think that, because that would mean that I was becoming more like her, becoming the MOM.

I hear myself say it, in the same exasperated tone that she did. I hear myself think that as I end up doing whatever the task is. And what gets me about that phrase is that I'm not saying it to Goosey, I'm saying it to Mr. Not Hideous. When did this become the standard of our relationship?

I love him with everything I have, he is my partner in everything, but I wish my brain wasn't the only one that worked sometimes.

Flashback Friday #1

The night before I graduated from the Arts High I went out to Loring Park with five friends. It was bittersweet. We tried not to think about how we were all moving out of the dorm in the morning. We tried not to think about how it could be a while before we got to see each other again. We really tried not to think about the end of our time at the Arts High. So instead we spent the time playing in the dandelion fountain.

While we were jumping, dancing, and splashing I happened to look across the street, and there in the low lamplight was Emorej, one of the other dancer seniors from the Arts High. He said that he was just sitting on the bench thinking about how school was over and crying. So we invited him to splash with us.

I don't have any pictures from that night, but here are some of the next day after we had all graduated.

Me, storysmith, box car child, and girl genius

My communist, Me, Seattle Girl

Me and girl genius

The five best things about the first day of school, nostalgia version

1. First day of school pictures. The Hatlady is a picture fanatic, she has an obsession with capturing things on film. She always has a hat and a camera on her. She can get pictures of anyone, especially if they usually don't let people take their pictures, she has a gift.

So every year she would make my sisters and I take a first day of school picture and a last day of school picture. You can tell how each of us feels by the look in our eyes, whether we're excited or don't want school to start again. It has become a tradition, and continued until box car child finished high school. If it weren't so hard to get us all together twice a year I would keep this tradition going.
me first day of first grade (not your typical first day of school photo, it would usually be all three of us together, but I couldn't find one of all of us.)

2. New school supplies. I love new pens, pencils, notebooks. I love the possibility they hold, the blank pages and new ink. It was so exciting going to school knowing that I had a backpack filled with possibility.

3. Friends. I grew up on a 13 acre farm out in the country and didn't see school friends often during the summer. I was always jealous of my 'town friends' that got to hang out during the summer. Late when I was going to the Arts High my friends were scattered across the state, so it made it even more difficult to see any of them during the summer.

4. Dance. Coming from farm country I didn't have many opportunities for dance classes during the summer, especially if I was looking for more than studio sparkle dance. Going to the Arts High meant being able to move again, being able to be around other dancers and, for my senior year, really finding my own voice and strength in dance. It really is like coming back to an old friend and feeling like you haven't changed at all and the relationship fits perfectly.

5. Having a clean slate. In a small town everyone knows everything about everyone else. Sometimes even before the people know it about themselves. Going to school in a small town and living far enough away to not be around all the time meant that I could escape that for the summer. I didn't get hooked into all the drama, I didn't have to. Coming back to school in the fall meant that I got to start out fresh. I didn't have the drama of the summer, and didn't know why so-and-so was made at her or him, or why everyone wasn't talking, or whatever. I didn't have to follow those rules, because they didn't apply to me, at least not yet.

Going to the Arts High meant coming back to an entire new grade of people, meant being able to stop being called 'Little Storysmith' or 'Storysmith's sister' and instead just be J. Don't get me wrong I love the Storysmith dearly, but being a junior in high school I didn't have the confidence or ability to be okay with that and still be myself. It meant that if people recognized me it was because they actually saw me, and not my older sister walking down the hallways.

Inspired by prompt #2 of Mama Kat's writer's workshop.

High-threshold relationships

I recently read a post on Facebook by my friend, Spiritual Mother, it was talking about high-threshold and low-threshold relationships. So I'm contemplating who is on my high-threshold list, and can feel my heart swelling just thinking of my relationships with those people.

Let me explain. High-threshold is not, like I first thought, high-maintenance. High-threshold is the relationship that you would do anything for, never let die, compromise the love you share, basically sticking out the relationship no matter what. High-threshold is that person you know you would never let go of, the person that you would do anything for.

Low-threshold is the relationship that you have not fully committed yourself to, one you would walk away from because of an issue or disagreement. Basically, a relationship without an agreement at a deeper level.

So, here is the beginning of my high-threshold list. I know it will continue to grow, change and transform as I do, but here is the list as of now. (In no particular order, except for number one and number two).

Mr. Not Hideous: because he is who he is and I can't imagine not having him around.

Goosey: the sweet girl who is part of me. She has shaped my life in so many ways, I can't even begin to explain.

Storysmith: My sister and best friend. It has taken us about 20 years to get here, I'm so glad we finally are.

Box Car Child: My other sister, and best friend. Always my accomplice in life. The absolute free spirit.

The Plaid Man: My brother-in-law, the first man I could truly trust. He opened me up in a way to be able to receive a relationship with Mr. NH. I can't thank him enough.

The Hatlady: How could my mother not make the list?

Spiritual Mother: The woman who made me have the conversation with Mr. NH about having a relationship. She is one of the most powerful women I know.

B and L: My second parents. Two people who have shaped me into who I am, and taught me so many things about life and living fearlessly while still questioning things to find my own beliefs.

Traveling Man: It took me a long time to get to here with my Dad. He traveled a lot when I was young and I assumed he didn't love me, getting rid of that story was one of the best things I have done in my entire life.

Girl Genius: My half sister. An amazing girl, I can't wait to see the woman she turns into and how she will change the world.

Triple A: This man is unconditional love in itself. I have never met a more caring, loving, generous human being.

My Communist: She has fostered my love for travel and nature, and is brilliant.

Dances for Dull Moments: My absolute favorite choreographer, and a complete artistic genius. She is fearless.

Die Cut Queen: Ultimate teacher, camp counselor, and empathetic to the core. The only person I've ever met who won't kill a mosquito.

Sister-friend: My longest lasting friendship, and the girl who ultimately gets me.


That's my list. I recommend you make one, and share it with your high-threshold friends.

The first trip to the ER and how we finally got ice cube trays

*This post contains descriptions of a bloody injury. if you're squeamish, I'd say skip it.

Yesterday was a high adrenaline day filled with hours of waiting. Not really a great combination in my opinion. But I guess that any day spent in the emergency room is not really a great day anyway.

Mr. Not Hideous had only been at work for about an hour when I called.

Me: "Um, Hi. Goosey just bit her tongue."

Mr. Not Hideous: "Okaaaay. I'm coming. Bye."

Me: " Bye..."

I didn't see how it happend. I had my back turned for one second, it only takes one, that's what everyone says. I just heard a very lound thunk and wails coming from behind me. I assume that Goosey slipped and slammed her chin down on the 'ledge of doom' (as it shall now be called.) Luckily, she only has four teeth, two only the bottom and two on the top, if she had more she would have bitten her tongue right off. Instead its just a hole.

He must have heard the panic in my voice because he called back in about two minutes, asking all the right questions.

Mr. NH: "Is there a lot of blood?"

Me: "No, not really."

Mr. NH: "Is there a big hole?"

Me: "I'm not sure."

Mr. NH: "Are you okay?"

Me: "I'm kinda freaking out right now..."

Mr. NH: "Okay, take a cleansing breath. Just relax, everything will be fine. If you need some help before I get home go downstairs to the chiropractic office. And if there is too much blood for us to handle, call the paramedics."

Me: "Yeah. We can handle it, it's not too much blood."

Mr. NH: "I'll be home soon."

I have worked at summer camps and in the ballroom at IKEA and have seen blood and injured children; I've kept my cool through all those situations, but something about this being MY baby sent me very close to loosing my cool. The only time that I have lost my cool in an emergency situation was when the emergency was happening to me, I just can't seem to think straight when I'm the patient. My judgement becomes impaired, and I need someone to tell me what to do; don't give me options, just say what needs to be done. I could tell that I was close to getting to that situation, so I took charge. I started telling myself what to do, talking to myself and really focusing on what would help the situation.

And so I waited for him to come home while holding my 10-month old baby girl, giving her cold cloths and her ice lobster to suck on to try to stop the bleeding. Mr. NH called about every eight minutes, just to make sure we were doing okay and to tell me things he learned in his EMT training.

Once he got home and assessed the situation, we decided it was going to be a trip to the emergency room. I made a bag of cold wet cloths for the car and made myself eat a granola bar while Mr. NH went downstairs to see if they had any ice cubes. No such luck. Of course they have ice packs, being a chiropractic office, but no ice in cubes.

Mr. NH jumped in the driver seat, and Goosey and I got in the back. Usually the car seat is a big struggle, but luckily she absolutely loves to suck on wet cloths so it sped up the process quite a bit.

We checked in at the ER and sat down to wait. I think we were in the ER waiting room for about an hour before we got to see a nurse. If I had been thinking properly before we left I would have packed a ER bag for Goosey, but nope, all we had for her was one penguin to play with. That lost its appeal in about half an hour. I'm going to mark that one down as a rookie mistake.

While we were waiting a man burst out of the ER door and made a bee line for the exit. He had about four doctors and nurses following him, trying to get him back inside. Unfortunately for him there were three squad cars parked right outside the entrance to the ER, with all the officers waiting around. He didn't make it very far before the officers were ushering him back in while all wearing their weighted gloves and hold tasers. Seriously. That did nothing for my nerves.

Apart from being bored and really wanting to walk around, Goosey was pretty much fine for the entire wait. But when we saw the nurse and we had to get her mouth open to show off her tongue, that's when there were lots of tears. We had to lay her on her back, a position that Goosey hates more than any other, and use a 'tongue knife' as the nurse called it to pry her mouth open. (Really, nurse, calling it a tongue knife does not make my nerves settle one bit! Since when do they call it that, why can't you say tongue depressor?)

The nurse sent us on our way to the same day clinic. Before we left we got her to give up a cup of crushed ice for Goosey to suck on. She almost didn't give us any because she was concerned about choking while the doctor checked her out. (I mean really, nurse, do you think we would put ice in her mouth while the doctor was diagnosing her? And do you really think that the doctor wouldn't notice the ice in the mouth while looking at a tongue wound?)

So we waited again. As we waited the room around us filled up as more and more patients arrived. We apparently had good timing. While we were waiting on of the receptionists came around the room a few times to reassure everyone, let us know how long the wait would be, that we were next, and to get Goosey some more crushed ice. I would like to nominate that man for an angel award, seriously, he was the most pleasant, caring person.

After waiting for about two and a half hours to see a doctor we finally saw Dr. Patton for fifteen minutes. I think five of those minutes were filled with three adults trying to hold a little crying girl down to open her mouth enough to see the extent of the damage. That was when I made a mistake. I was holding her arms and being kicked in the chest, and I peeked. I looked right at her mouth as Mr. NH and Dr. Patton got it open. It was gross. I was able to still hold her down, but my whole body did a squeamish shiver dance. Gross.

Dr. Patton gave us our options, knock her out and give her stitches or give her antibiotics and let it heal on its own. We chose to let it heal, people pierce their tongues all the time, no problem. Really, I didn't expect the doctor to have any other options, and I think Mr. NH and I knew that we would opt for no stitches if possible, but we knew we had to take her in.

As of now, Goosey's tongue has closed up, which means she can nurse again. It was too painful for her last night so she got milk in a sippy cup, and we all got a nearly sleepless night.

And we finally bought ice cube trays.

Pie Day on a leash

Quite a few things have come out of Braham, MN that the world should be happy about. Egg beaters were made there, the pooper scooper was invented there. I think that the best thing to come out of Braham is Braham Pie Day, although, I can image that if I had a dog the pooper scooper might move up on the list for me.

Braham was named the 'Homemade Pie Capitol of Minnesota' in 1991 by Governor Rudy Perpich (the very same guy who starter the Perpich Center for Arts Educaion, really was he an angel in disguise?) Since that proclamation Braham has held an annual one day pie festival in August. And it is great. I love it.

It was a wonderful day. And exhausting. Why? Mr. Not Hideous is the director of Pie Day, and me, I'm the secretary and co-coordinator for the Kids N' Berries tent. So, yeah, we were a little busy.

I spent the morning with Goosey in our Kelty backpack as I went between the hospitality room, Kids N' Berries tent, main stage, and the storage locker, all the while trying to remember to check the answering machine every half hour.

Mr. Not Hideous was unable to find himself a golf cart to borrow for the day, so instead he had the motorcycle out and was driving that up and down the length of the three block park. (He was definitely NOT hideous riding around all morning!)

The afternoon was a little less hectic, but still filled with stops to the stage, kids n' berries, talking with random craft fair vendors who showed up late and didn't know where they were supposed to set up, checking the answering machine, and running in to relatives from Oregon and Washington.

Mr. Not Hideous' Mom, Shopping Queen, was staying with us, so I could leave Goosey with her on my perpetual trips out of the apartment. Now, Shopping Queen loves Goosey. Absolutely adores her, but Goosey doesn't seem to have quite the same feelings for Shopping Queen. Every time that I came back into the apartment I was greeted by the sounds of Goosey crying. No matter how long I had been out. That was another reason I felt like I walked ten times faster than normal all day long.

On one of my walks between the apartment and the festival I ended up behind one of the other in town families with a young child. I have seen them around town a lot, and usually they have their daughter, E-R, in a stroller, but she has just learned how to walk. So instead of a stroller they had one of those monkey-backpack-leash things on her. It was the first time in my life that I have actually thought that the monkey-backpack-leash is an invention worth thinking about.

In the past, whenever I would see parents using leashes for their children my reaction was always the same. 'What sort of stupid parent would need to put a leash on their child?!! Can't they just teach their child to listen? Don't they know how to talk to their kids? Kids are not animals!!! I will NEVER be one of those parents! I will be aware enough to not use one, blah, blah, blah...'

After having spent months seeing E-R with her parents and watching her Dad out on walks with her, I have been humbled. He is a wonderful father, and has so much patience for little feet learning to walk and explore the world on a whole new level. I know that he has the capability to talk to E-R with respect and if anyone could figure out how to get their 16 month old to listen and walk out in public without a leash, I'm sure it would be him. So, I'm eating my thoughts, and apologizing to the countless parents who have given themselves a break and bought a monkey-backpack-leash thing.

Did I mention that I'm thinking about buying one of the monkey-backpack-leash things? Goosey is walking already, and I like her too much for her to have free reign over busy streets. Not to mention crowds where little feet have a way of finding all the small places to slip away.

So sorry for being a self-righteous twenty-something and thinking that my few years of life-without-child could magically know better.

I'm sure there will be some Pie Day when I will have the child on leash look going for me.

Who stole our mirrors? Was it Frank?

Ever since I was about five years old I have been learning Swedish. The summer after 4th grade I was able to go to Sjolunden, the Swedish language village of the Concordia Language Villages.

My first year as a four-week villager, or credit, I was 14. That was the summer when I first learned about body image. Now 14 seems a little old to just learn about body image, did I live under a rock or in a cave before this summer? Well, no, not exactly. I grew up in a blissfully unaware state, we didn't watch tv or listen to the radio much, instead we played outside with the cats; sometimes naked, sometimes not, depending on our age or if there was a puddle out in the yard.

But at Sjolunden I was living in a cabin with 12 other 14-16 year old girls. Girls who wore make-up, put a lot of thought into what they wore every day, and spent hours sometimes in front of the mirrors in the bathroom. I have to admit that even the hours in front of the mirrors were something I was unaware of. I don't think I ever really noticed what they were doing, or how long they were in front of the mirrors, or what time they got up in the mornings to fit all those 'neccessary' things into their morning ritual.

This isn't to say that I am calling those camp friends vain, or that I was above all that. I was just unaware, totally 100% unaware.

Unaware until the day I found out that the credit boys had rated the two cabins of credit girls. Yes, rated, based on what exactly I don't remember now, but I'm sure it was hotness or looks. I was kind of excited when I found out that they had rated us, just because I was unaware of the idea of body image didn't mean I didn't care how people saw me. I remember coming in in one of the last five places. I was, to say the least, disappointed, but I didn't give my position more than a passing thought. That was until the counselors talked to us about it and made the credit boys write an apology letter to all the credit girls.

Unaware until one day our mirrors turned up missing. It was hard to be unaware after that, the other girls were so incredibly upset about it. I think I just thought of it as camp drama, a mystery to solve, something else to make camp more exciting. Everyone seemed to have a theory, it was the credit boys cabin, the maintenance crew took them, one of the other villages came and stole them. At the time I didn't realize the gravity of the situation, or why Frank, the head maintenance man, would want our mirrors.

It didn't take long for some of the girls to pull out compact mirrors, or the kind you buy for school lockers and put them up in the bathroom. It was so important to some of them.

I was unaware until after I got home and one of the counselors, Stina, sent a letter to us all. She said that she had to come clean, she took the mirrors out of our cabin. She said that she couldn't stand watching us stand in front of the mirrors for hours while putting on make-up, doing our hair, or just pinching at our stomachs. She wanted us to realize that we are beautiful, all of us, that we didn't need the mirrors to tell us that.

I was floored. I knew about the make-up and hair, but I had never seen a single girl in front of the mirror pinching, complaining, wishing she were smaller. And that was when it hit me, body image is a big deal to some people, that it can be debillitating.

I think it was the next school year in Science class that we weighed ourselves during class. I was somewhere in the 90s. One of my friends made a big deal about me not being over 100 pounds. I think that was the first time that I had weighed myself that wasn't a school physical. I remember thinking that we were about the same height and looked to weigh the same, she couldn't weigh too much more. I now know that it doesn't have to be much more for people to be upset about it.

Sjolunden and Science shaped my idea of body image. Since that year I have been more aware of body image. It hasn't changed how I eat or look at myself, but made me aware that other people look at me differently. I rarely voice my opinion when people talk about weight, I don't want anyone to be offended by the 'skinny b*tch.'

I would love to gain weight, I need about ten more pounds to be healthy. I am not really unhealthy, but I turn into a cranky, crabby, hard-to-live-with monster if I don't have enough to eat RIGHT NOW. My sisters have this same problem too, we can't function on low blood sugar, we snap at everyone no matter what, and can't even think to find a snack for ourselves if we let it go too far. Seriously, being skinny is not glorious. I wish that the rest of the American world would see that.

This post was prompted by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.

Questions for the Nosy

This meme is from Erin at Blogging is for Dorks, check her out, she's great. She made up these questions, go see her answers here.


1. Describe the person nearest to you, or if no one is near you at this moment the person who was last nearest to you, duh.
Goosey, my 9 month old daughter. Currently she is eating apple-strawberry puffs in her favorite summer outfit of diaper. She is just starting to walk, which means we had to purchase what I like to call the 'baby cage.' Not her favorite thing, but works wonders for keeping her from pulling books off shelves, torturing the cats, or making lots of noise directly above Mr. Not Hideous' massage room. (I don't think his clients want to hear Goosey sounding like an elephant while they are trying to relax, but maybe they think it's cute...)

2. Who do you think you resemble most in your immediate family and why?
As far as looks, my sister Storysmith. We have been asked multiple times if we are twins, she is actually two years older than me. I loved that question when we were younger, she didn't.

3. Who do you think (what nation, group or individual) is the biggest threat to our nation's security?
I think Americans are. Well, to be fair the ones who go about ostracizing other counties/peoples because they don't know any better. I think the world would view the States much differently if we were to extend our hands/ears and come up with some solutions together.

4. What do you do at night before you go to sleep? Do you have any rituals, usual behaviors?
This time of year I get into as little close as possible so as not melt into a puddle while sleeping.

5. What's the most challenging thing about being a parent? OR If you don't have children, what do you think will be the most challenging thing about being being a parent?
For me the most challenging thing is to not be so darn Minnesotan. We Minnesotan's have a tendency to 'not make waves,' which means we go along with things just because everyone else is. Being my Minnesotan self has shown up in motherhood when I have been out visiting people or making plans to do things. I tend to let nap times slide or give myself permission to sneak out of the action to take care of Goosey. I know that I do this and it makes things worse in terms attitudes and emotional stability. Imagine the chaos I'll create for myself when I have more than one baby! Eeek!

6. What do you think is your most attractive feature?
My eyes. But I am genuinely pleased with all my physical features, truly I am.

7. Who is your favorite blog friend? Link them!
I'm rather new to blogging, so no blog friends as of yet. But I do really enjoy Josie over at Sleep is for the Weak

8. Max just got in trouble for hitting Olivia in the throat. She's now sitting in time out screaming 'I'm STUPID!' at the top of her lungs. Should I ignore her till her time out is over, or should I talk to her now and ruin the time out?
Oh my, I don't feel like I have any experience to back up my thoughts on this one. I never once was sent to time out as a child, I don't know how the Hatlady, my mother, managed it as a single mom, but it never happened. I have worked with children of all ages in many different settings, but never in the capacity to put one in time out.

I would say 'This is time out and you need to keep your voice down,' and then at the end of time out talk to her about what saying 'I'm stupid' really means about her and what permissions she gives other people about her when she says it.

But that would be in a perfect world, I think I'd end up telling her to be quiet during the time out and not to call herself stupid.

9. Who was the first person you kissed and where are they now?
I think the first boy I kissed was Dan. We were in 7th grade and had lockers next to each other. I thought he was funny. We were both short (well, I don't know about him, but I still am) and all his friends thought it was cute and wanted us to kiss all the time. He was my first boyfriend, I was rather embarrassed. 7th grade is hard enough without having your boyfriend's friends trying to make you kiss all the time.

I think he's married now, but I haven't seen him since 10th grade.

10.Ok, here's the final crapola questionado: What's the grossest thing you've ever done or has ever happened to you?
When I was younger I got carsick a lot. If I had any ice cream before an hour long car ride you could bet that I would need to have the window cracked for fresh air and cold water to drink. Coincidentally this is the same amount of time it takes to get from the Hatlady's house to Traveling Man's, my dad.

On one such trip home from spending the weekend at Traveling Man's house we were a quarter of a mile from reaching the Hatlady's. I told Traveling Man that I didn't feel well and that he should pull the car over, and do it now. He thought we could make it. Guess what, we didn't. I vomited. Now, in my brilliance I didn't just vomit on the car or on myself, but I took my straw hat off my head (yes, straw hat) and vomited in that.

The Hatlady, the sweet hat wearing lady that she is, couldn't bring herself to throw out that straw hat. So, she cleaned it and kept it around the house for years. Yes, I do mean years. I think that only in the last five years or so that hat has finally disappeared. Whether it disappeared to the garbage can or the local thrift store I don't know.