It's snow joke

It's snowing again! It has been snowing every day and I'm sick of it, do you hear? Sick of it!

I live in a condo and my garage is third in a line of four garages. These are tiny little garages barely big enough for my 9-year-old Impala. As a result, I've been in the habit of leaving the car in front of the garage at all times.

The problem is that when it snows, the car has to be moved in order for the driveway to be plowed. So, I have to squeeze it inside beside the lawn chairs and assorted junk. I got another nice-sized dent in the fender backing it out of the garage recently. How much more can my poor car take?

I'm not sure which of my favorite sayings best applies here:

"The harder it is to do something, the more often you have to do it."
"Life is sure tough for us dumb people."
"If you already have dents in your car, another one won't matter."
"Old age ain't for sissies!"

Well, anyway, it sure looks a lot like Christmas everywhere you go.

Viking Grandma

Whoa! I'm a week behind in my blogging! I am such a sluggard. Well, actually, more like crazy- busy getting ready for the Holidays.

As I mentioned previously, we are cheaping out this Christmas. Despite that, I bought a new 2009 calendar for everyone on my Christmas list, something I've been doing for many years. (I love calendar art--I save all my old calendars and can't pass a store display without checking them all out.)

The Clan agreed that when we get together for Christmas, we'll each bring a $10.00 wrapped gift and play Bingo for the prizes. And, did I mention we're having meatballs instead of ham? This will not affect the amount of cookies and goodies, however. There is always an excess of pie, candy, munchies, cake and what-have-you.

We also have a little program at our Holiday get-together. The kids will play songs, sing, read or do something goofy. I insist on inflicting a Norwegian Christmas Carol on them every year in return. All my grandchildren have Norwegian genes from both sides of the family. So, I have taken it upon myself to make sure they have at least that much heritage thrust upon them.

The carol is mercifully brief and is called, "Jeg er saa glaa hver Julekveld". This translates to, "We are so glad this Christmas Eve". My eight grandkids and three great-grandaughters are going to grow up with that little bit of Norway in their heads in spite of themselves!

How I fumigated my bathroom--a Serious Story

As I have mentioned before, I can't smell. Therefore, when I am cleaning, I always worry that everything reeks and I must take special pains to freshen it up. (This is in addition to getting rid of cobwebs from a thriving house spider population.)

Case in point: the bathroom.

I put an ample amount of blue liquid stuff in the toilet to let it "steep" while I scrubbed the bathtub and sink. When I mopped the floor, I noticed that the plastic caddy that holds the toilet brush had water sitting in it. Since it was likely that the water might smell, I poured the water into the toilet.

This is the stupid, serious part. Just to make absolutely, positively sure the caddy didn't smell, I decided to rinse it out with some bleach. I swished the bleach around and then poured it into the blue water in the toilet.

It took a minute before my fractured olfactories began to sense the fumes. Actually, my nose starting burning first. I turned on the ceiling fan and closed the door behind me.

I inspected the label on the toilet cleaner to see if it contained ammonia (which I never would have expected). It wasn't listed on the contents. But, in tiny 8-pt letters on the back, it said not to mix it with bleach.

C'mon! That should be in BIG RED letters on the front!

It wasn't until late evening that I could open the door to the bathroom again. But, by golly, there was nary a spider in there. I hope they died quickly.

I don't really hate or fear spiders and generally try to co-exist with them. I practice catch and release whenever necessary (like a really big, obnoxious-looking spider). I'm not heartless, after all.

FUN FACT: No matter where you are in the world, there is probably a spider within six feet.

No Meat For You!

I talked to my daughter, Paula in Sauk Centre last night (she actually lives on the Main Street of Sinclair Lewis fame). We were discussing the menu for our family Christmas dinner. I told her that we were planning on Swedish Meatballs and gravy, adding that my local daughter, Brenda was bringing "meatless meatballs".

I was surprised when Paula announced, "That's what I'll be having." Yet another of my kin has converted to Vegetarianism! My son, Mark, has been avoiding meat for many years. My sister, Karen, no longer eats any meat, as well as her daughter, Julie and family. Brenda has stopped eating meat since her bout with breast cancer 5 years ago. And, now Paula has joined their ranks.

What's the matter with me!? I am totally sympathetic to the ideal of not eating animals. A friend from one of my writer's groups is an avid activist against the inhumane treatment of farm animals. Indeed, I stopped eating pork for some months after she read a piece on the suffering of a dying sow at the stockyards in St Paul.

But then, a little bit of bacon slipped back into my diet, and then a pork sausage and before you know it, I was eating ham and pork chops again!

And, much as I try to fight it, I still crave a burger now and then.

Save the beasts of the farm and field! Now, there is another New Year's resolution that I have to contemplate.

So, anyway...

Last night at a writer's group meeting, the discussion turned to the subject of accents. This was followed by speculation on how Sarah Palin came to have a Minnesota-type accent.

Since I had clipped an article from the Minneapolis Star Tribune on the subject (sorry, I don't have the date), I wanted to share. Here's a synopsis:

Back in 1935, as part of FDR's New Deal program, 203 Midwestern families bankrupted by the Depression were recruited to settle the Matanuska Valley in Alaska. The majority of them came from Minnesota and Wisconsin. Both states were settled by Norwegian, Swede and German immigrants.

The Minnesota accent is distinguished by long O's and saying 'Ya' instead of 'You' and 'Yah' for 'Yes". This is amply demonstrated in the movie, Fargo.

Now, I was born and raised in Minnesota. My mother was the youngest of a large Norwegian family that homesteaded in Western Minnesota. Mom didn't even speak English when she started school back in 1926. As a result, she, like many other Minnesotans retained Scandanavian inflections in her speech. This slipped right into our English.

We were pretty much unaware of it until the eighties. Until then, Minnesotans thought of themselves as incredibly average, mostly unremarkable folks. But Garrison Keillor noticed that we were sorta distinctive in our way, and he went with it. After that, The Prairie Home Companion radio show and subsequent books by Keillor, in addition to Howard Mohr's How to Talk Minnesotan and A Minnesota Book of Days turned a spotlight on our (dare I say...) uniqueness!

I'm secretly pleased when someone notices my Minnesota accent and I enjoy being a Minnesotan.

As GK always says, "All the women are strong, all the men are good-looking and all the children are above-average."

My Bucket List

About twenty five years ago, I made a list of life Goals. Over time, I have achieved most of them except learning to play the guitar. (That must have been a momentary whim because, for the life of me, I don't know why I ever had that desire.)

Anyway, this morning I'm watching the NBC Today Show as I drink my coffee and read the daily newspaper, and one of the people on the street is holding up a sign about her Bucket List.

This "jabbed a stick" into my consciousness over the goal I haven't achieved yet. When I retired three years ago, I intended to be a full-time writer. I kept getting sidetracked into other projects (quite willingly, I might add). I worked for over a year on a 120-page family memories-and-cookbook. Since then I've worked on short stories and memoirs, but my novel languishes.

But the thing of it is: That novel was at the top of my Bucket List!

I started the book ten years ago. There it sits in my Word Documents, all fragmented and flawed. It calls to me from time to time, "Fix me, finish me, stop avoiding me!"

Well, a New Year is approaching. Maybe this will be the year my slippery, capricious Muse will find its way back.

Danger, Sparrow, Danger!

I've been getting some recorded telemarketing calls lately. They start out, "Do not be alarmed!" (They go on to offer some credit card insurance.)

This is so devious. How better to get you to listen to the message than to imply there is danger!

I don't know about you, but I don't have nearly enough danger in my daily life. My adrenalin level remains pretty constant. The most hazardous thing I ever do is back the car out of my tiny garage--and I have the dents to prove it.

The only wild animals I encounter are the opossums that I feed on my patio. There are also voles, squirrels and a few raccoons that come around, as well, but the 'possums are the stars. This is because they are newcomers.

Possums are common to the South, like armadillos. Because of Global Warming, however, they have been working their way north over time. And now, I am privileged to have my very own tribe.

Their arrival each evening is an eagerly anticipated event. The three cats and I sit at the patio door and watch them eat the jelly or peanut butter sandwiches, meat scraps, fruit and whatever. The possums ignore us even though we're only a foot away.

I never know which ones will show up, but they always come separately. The first one was a big light-colored one with pretty pink ears, that I promptly named Petunia. Next came Tank (a solidly-built little fella), then Elvis (a young one with small black ears). Last night, a new one appeared with a torn ear and 2-tone tail, so he became Rocky. The gender assignments are arbitrary, of course, and naming them is pure self-indulgence.

Now that the snows have come, I'm hoping to track them to where they've holed up for the winter. The poor things are not well-adapted to Minnesota with their naked tails and sparse coats. I worry about them--and so I feed them.

After all, they face danger every day.