Tag Archives: life

To be a human in winter.

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Mid January in Western North Dakota doesn’t have the best reputation. It’s indecisive. One day it’s a kind, 20 some degrees,


the next a bitter, chilling 20 below.


Then, just when you find peace with your wedgie-inducing long underwear, it decides to warm up  enough to melt the snow. “How nice!” you think to yourself as you get in your car to drive to town. “I think I could get used to this winter thing if it stayed like this…”

But you know better and you should have never taken off those long underwear, because as soon as you get far enough away from home that turning back wouldn’t make much of a difference, the wind picks up and drops the temperature enough to turn that once slushy highway into a long and lethal ice-skating rink where a constant stream of semis and oil tankers are your competition.

And you’re no Nancy Kerrigan.

Ah, shit. I admit, January and I are enemies. I try to stay positive, keep my guitar out and my snow-shoes and neck-warmer handy. I try to do some sledding or walking or make a snow angel or something…


but mostly I wind up in my sweatpants under the John Wayne blanket reading a book about someone near the ocean before I turn out the light for the night and prepare to tackle mid-winter in the morning.

White knuckle driving, the “arms-out, it’s icy out,” sidewalk shuffle, an intimate relationship with Henry, the morning weather man, phone calls to Pops and Momma and Husband and Little Sister and my friend down the road about whether or not to believe the storm report, feet shoved in slippers and then in boots and then in slippers and then under the covers, soup and coffee and tea and some sort of disgusting warmed up cold medicine because everyone’s sick around here….and a constant craving for pastries.

Yup, that’s January.

And although it comes every year, I’m always surprised how this month seems to suck the creative light right out of me and makes me question the practicality of packing up the pug and heading south.

But I’m not leaving.

Well, there’s the Vegas thing in February, but as of today, I’m planning on coming back. Because I’m here for the long haul, and the longest haul of them all just happens to be winter.

I was thinking this last night as I sat behind the wheel of my four-wheel-drive and turned up the volume on some melancholy music, singing along soulfully and feeling frigid and uninspired and hungry for carbohydrates. I put my foot lightly on the brake to navigate a snowy curve, when up ahead, about five mils from home along the side of the road I noticed a large, tall, dark figure moving slowly toward the white ditch.

I slowed down as a few hundred scenarios whipped through my mind as they do when you see something unexpected on a very familiar path…to big to be a deer…

A grizzly bear?

A tall, scary, insane hitchhiker?

Bigfoot?

An alien? Probably an alien.

No.

No.

No.

I pulled a little closer until the length of my headlights revealed the figure: two massive and stunning bull elk moving with ease and confidence across the road toward an oak filled coulee on the edge of the badlands.

I stopped in the middle of the road and looked around. Not much traffic meant I could relax and bask in this mysterious moment for a beat. And apparently those elk felt the same way, not the least bit intimidated by the flare of an oil well behind them casting light on their bodies and transforming them into beautiful silhouettes.

They stood still in that warm glow on a flat, snowy patch of ground and stared at the metal contraption lit up in front of them.

An alien.

I rolled down my window to hear them breathing, to hear their hooves squeak in the crust of the snow. As they moved along the highway I lightly pressed the gas pedal and moved with them, imagining I was on my way to the oak grove on the edge of the badlands, imagining my body was held up by a set of massive, hoof-clad legs.

Imagining my coat was thick and my head was held high and I could run like that.

Imagining I was one of them.

But people were made for houses I suppose. Houses and words and questions and the wisdom and thumbs to make wool caps to protect us from the cold.

And of all the qualities a glorious North Dakota elk possesses, I don’t imagine he can be inspired.

Although perhaps he is the definition of the word standing magnificently on a snowy flat, staring into my soul.

So I’ll take it. I’ll take the ice and the fur lined boots and the hot cup of coffee because being human on a cold January evening means the ability to become breathless and warmed clear through and falling in love, over and over again with our big, wide, white, frozen, wonderful world.

How to warm up.

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It’s no secret, winters in North Dakota are long and cold. We always know they’re coming, but still they surprise us as we lean into November with brave faces and feed our bodies with soup and turkey and hot dishes (that’s Lutheran for casserole). We wait for the snow as we prepare our Thanksgiving meals and watch it fall as we wrap up presents, bring in Christmas trees, snuggle our families and ring in the New Year with champaign and a bit of dread, not necessarily about the year ahead, but the month we’re staring down.

No, the initial blast of holiday cheer can’t trick North Dakotans into thinking that winter is a party.

Oh no.

No.

Because we still have January. And January is just the beginning really, marching in on us promising unpredictable, below zero temperatures, blinding blizzards, snow drifts, icy roads, and then usually a nice little thaw to tease us before it starts all over again.

January scares me. It always has. And I know it’s coming, I do, but for some reason I find myself worrying that I might not come out of the deep freeze with the rest of the furry animals tucked away tight for the winter.

I worry I’ll start eating hot dishes (Lutheran for casserole) and never stop.

I worry I’ll grow too comfortable with the extra padding on my rear-end and the bulky sweaters and the scarves that hug me and hide me from the elements and I will decide not to emerge with the warm sun.

I worry I might just turn into a hibernating bear-like creature who never shaves her legs or takes off her beanie and walks all hunched over and shivery if she ever decides to move at all.

This kind of paranoia is not healthy. Fear is not a good place to be. So this January, instead of bidding farewell to the holidays, packing out the gigantic Christmas tree and pulling on the wool socks with no intentions of removal, we decided to keep the party going.

We decided to leave the Christmas tree up. We decided to buy more groceries, turn on the oven, pull out the crock pots and paper plates and keep on eating.

We decided to dig out the schnapps.

And the snow pants.

We decided to call our friends and neighbors to see if they’d like to join us as we flung our bodies down the giant hill outside our window.

We decided to clear off the stock dam and turn it into a curling rink.

We decided to use icicles as stir sticks,

drink hot chocolate, sit close together on the couch,

play some games, tell some stories and sing a little.

I decided to make a chocolate cake.

From scratch.

We decided to build a fire and stand around it and then head inside to eat some more.

We decided to laugh in winter’s face.

Take that winter.

And that.

And this.

And this.

And that.

And…

Ummm…

Well…

ooooo…

I think winter won there.

But I’m not scared anymore.

I just forgot for a moment what it is that really gets us through life in one piece. And it’s not just the special occasions that are put on a calendar reminding us to love one another, to be thankful and to celebrate.

No, it’s the every day and the way we chose to live it.




It’s the phone calls that we make that turn into plans to sit next to one another and eat dip and chocolate cake. It’s the way we bundle up against the cold and scream as we push each other down hills, remembering what it’s like to forget everything but the world you just climbed to the top of and flew down.






It’s remembering that sometimes we need someone to pull us up there.

It’s clearing a space for games and music.

It’s the invitation into one another’s homes, into our lives, to sleep on the couch or on the air mattress in the next bedroom and wake up for bacon and coffee and a recap of how someone nearly killed the pug in a sledding rollover.

Because we are made for so many things–work and worry, fear and bravery, singing and listening. Our lungs are made for breathing, yes, but they also work for screaming as snow sprays you in the face while you fly 25 miles per hour down a hill in a sled with your father and your friend.

How else would you find out a brain freeze can start on the outside of your head?

And our fingers are made for working and typing and pointing out things that are wrong with the world, but they also fit really nicely in mittens, as you pull each other up.

I mean, sure, it’s damn cold out there, but our legs are made for walking, hiking, climbing, jumping and standing on the top of things, we might as well use them properly.

See that’s the thing about us northerners. It’s not that we have found a spot in our hearts for the blinding snows of winters, the icy wind or temperatures that dip so far below zero that I don’t even want to mention it. It’s not that we ever get used to the deep freeze.

It’s just that we know, in the deepest of winters, on the coldest of January days, what to do to warm up.








Note: Only four sleds and two skinny little butts were injured in the making of this blog post. 

Cowboy’s Kitchen Invasion: Egg Rollin’

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It’s Little Sister’s birthday today.

Here she is, gathering wood for our fire back in the olden days…

It’s also my Momma’s.

And here she is, when we were nothing but a twinkle in her eye…

They are two stubborn, competitive, well spoken and beautiful women who love to eat and who turn another year older today.

And I’m happy about that. Because without them my world would be missing the kind of tear-streaming laughter that only a momma and a sister can elicit.

We have a big party in the works for tomorrow to celebrate them properly. There will be sledding, there will be dips and chips and wine and cocktails and neighbors. And there will be cake. I will make it. It will be from scratch. And it will be chocolate.

I’m not going to make any promises about it being delicious, but that’s what I’m going to aim for.

Anyway, I’ll tell you one thing that all Veeder women have in common, when it comes to our birthdays we like to stretch the party out over a few days (or in my case, at least the entire month of August).

And so it began for Little Sister yesterday when she arrived at our place after work with a bag full of ingredients and a mission to teach Husband and I how to make egg rolls.

Now, Little Sister is notorious for calling me or Momma during an impromptu trip to the grocery store hundreds of miles away and demanding that, no matter where we are in the world, we retrieve from thin air that recipe she enjoyed so much once during her childhood…and then she proceeds to call us every ten minutes during the multiple hour process to walk her through it.

So when my dear, sweet, squishy cheeked Little Sister  informed me that she was going to make us egg rolls I was excited and intrigued and knew it probably had something to do with the man in her life.

And now we introduce: The Boyfriend.

He’s a pretty good guy I tell you. Funny and patient and brought up by a family who makes cooking a competition.

Which is actually perfect because Little Sister happens to be competitive, and, well, if you turn cooking into a sport where beer drinking and eating is encouraged, I guess she can get right on board with that.

And so this is where the egg rolls come in, the whole process a tradition in The Boyfriend’s family complete with friendly rivalry and snide remarks about who makes the best roll.

I decided we needed aprons.

Husband decided to put on his hat, roll up his sleeves, turn on some Johnny Cash, pour himself some whiskey, and sharpen his knives for forty five minutes.

I decided to document.

And so I present to you a long overdue installment of “Cowboy in the Kitchen”…with a twist.

Cowboy’s Kitchen Invasion: Egg Rollin’ with Little Sister and The Boyfriend

I promise this is easy, no matter how complicated we make it look.

I promise I’ve never had 90% of these ingredients in my kitchen before.

I promise you I will now stock up.

I promise you’re gonna love them.

Let’s get, umm, rollin…

Step One: Essential Ingredients

Ok, first things first (because you know the rules). Pour yourself a drink while you sing along to “Ring of Fire,” because, well,       this is Cowboy’s Kitchen.

Apparently when Little Sister cooks, she likes to drink out of giant mason jars. She doesn’t mess around people.

Now gather the ingredients.

  • 2 lbs ground pork
  • 2 packages cole slaw (you can also shred your own cabbage, but we figured this was homemade enough for Little Sister’s debut)
  • 1 cup shredded carrots (not pictured)
  • 12 oz package of tofu. Cowboys, don’t be scared, here’s what it looks like in case you’ve never seen it:
  • 1/2 package cellophane noodles (we used Malifun Rice Sticks)
  • 2 packages (30) egg roll skins
  • 1 bunch of green onions, chopped
  • 2 T seasoning salt (Lowry’s)
  • 1 T ginger
  • 3 T Chinese 5 Spice
  • Dash of pepper to taste
  • Sweet and Sour sauce for dipping
  • Vegetable Oil for frying

Step Two: Prep

Alrighty, got it all? Good. Now heat a good amount of oil up in a fryer, enough to get those egg rolls frying.

This is Cowboy’s favorite part. He loves his fryer. He guards it with his life and has given me specific directions not to touch it.  Now that it’s out of storage, I have a feeling we’ll be having fried suppers for a good week or so. So much for New Year’s Resolutions.

Anyway, while the oil’s heating up, brown the pork in a pan on the stove. You can add a little salt and pepper here for taste if you’d like.

Now, soak those thin cellophane noodles in water (for about 10 to 15 minutes) to get them softened up.

If you feel like it, you can sing the old “Chicago” hit “Cellophane” in your best Broadway voice while waving your jazz hands about the kitchen. Your Little Sister will love that.

Step 3: Chop and Mix

Ok, now chop up those green onions. Don’t worry, Cowboy’s spent the last 20 minutes sharpening that knife so it should get the job done.

In a big mixing bowl add the coleslaw, carrots and onions and mix it all up.

Add the cooked (and drained) pork and the tofu. No need to cut up the tofu, it’s in this recipe to help the ingredients stick together.

Now add the seasoning and watch as Little Sister and The Boyfriend argue about the correct amount.

“If you screw something up, no big deal, it’s only like $12,” says the easy going boyfriend.

“Yeah, that’s what irks me. If we screw this up, we’re out $12!” exclaims the frugal little sister.

Silently hope the whole opposites attracting thing works out for them as you move onto my favorite part, cutting up the thin noodles with a kitchen scissors.

That’s Cowboy’s hopeful wondering face…

Add those noodles to the rest of the ingredients,  mix it all up and get ready to roll!

Step 4: Roll ’em up

Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Time to roll ’em.

  • Grab yourself a small bowl of water and wet your counter before placing one egg roll skin flat and at an angle before you.
  • Place about a 2 T of the egg roll mix at the center of one egg roll skin
  • Fold the edge closest you you over the mix,
    then fold in the left and right side of the skin

    and roll it up in a nice and tight little wrap.

The egg roll skins should be flexible and easy to work with and when you wrap them up the corners should seal up really nice. To get this to happen, just keep your fingers wet and add water to the edges and seams of the egg roll wrapper.

Step 5: Fry ’em

This is where egg roll making becomes a team sport, so put your differences aside and work together!

  • Place the wrapped egg rolls on a cookie sheet and ask The Boyfriend to begin frying them up while you work on wrapping them. You don’t want the little guys to sit too long before you cook them because they dry up and get sticky.


  • Cook each roll 3 or 4 at a time in the fryer (or in a deep frying pan with oil) for about 3 to 4 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove and place on a plate and marvel at how much more delicious they look than those professional egg rolls you’ve seen at the bottom of your Chinese take-out when you used to live in town.
  • Wonder how much it would cost to get Chicken Lo-Mein delivered to the ranch.
  • Think maybe your life could be complete if someone would come over to show you how to make cream cheese and crab wontons to go with them.
    Because this recipe makes a large batch, you can feed your guests as you go, or place them in a pan and keep them warm in the oven until supper time. You may also freeze them in plastic baggies and warm them up in the oven for another day.Or, if you’re The Boyfriend, you can sneak three or four in your girlfriend’s purse for lunch the next day.Step 5: Sit down and eat and tell the story about the cold winter day when Little Sister was born 24 years ago

    Happy Birthday Little Sister and Momma!

    Love you and love these egg rolls!

    And you’re gonna love my cake.

    See ya on the sledding hill tomorrow.

Next Year.

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It’s been a hell of a year at the Veeder Ranch and it looks like it’s going to go out with quite the chill in the air. I’ll tell you in advance, if you can’t find me after midnight tonight it’s because I’ll be laying face down in a carpeted corner somewhere, exhausted and finally giving in after a wonderful week spent wrapping and unwrapping, decorating and celebrating, laughing and baking and eating everything, driving and visiting friends, singing for my supper and trying every holiday cocktail concoction possible.

Staring down a new year has always been bittersweet for me. I get a little panicky feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s directly correlated to the tasks I thought I might get done and the potential of a brand new chance to get things right.

See I try to be a person who looks back only occasionally to catch a good memory, remember a lesson learned or laugh at something that was damn hilarious.

I’ve been known to leave the awkward, tough and uncomfortable situations that occurred throughout my life in the dust where I think they belong, but the anticipation of January 1st always has me looking back on the little things that I could have done better; like taking deep breaths whenever I found my husband on a tall ladder,

the pug packing his nap-sack for another runaway attempt,

or the cat dangling painfully from the tips of my fingers. 

Deep breaths.

It works on the little things and it worked as we could do nothing but watch the volunteer firefighters try to save the little farmhouse we called home this summer.

Breathing, sometimes in this life that’s all we can do.

Sometimes that’s all I want to do as I sit on the hilltops on the back of my horse and watch as the wind bends the grasses, rustles the trees and tangles my hair, but in all of the moments I’ve set up for myself throughout the year sometimes breathing is the hardest.

And the most important thing.

This year I wrote it all down.

This year I sang it out loud and sent it out into the world.

This year I cried a little and sucked it up.

This year I was scared. Really nervous. This year I did it anyway.

This year I made dessert for breakfast, mistakes that looked like reasons and music that sounded a little more like me.

This year I rode a little harder I think. I drank too much coffee and too much tequila, ate too much pasta and maybe didn’t make as much time for that breathing thing as I should have.

Or sit-ups.

But I laughed. A lot. I got my oxygen that way I think. I laughed hard as I rode off into the sunset on a horse working his hardest to get rid of me.

I laughed as we stuck it out. I laughed as I forgot to put it in drive while pushing the gas pedal and wondering why the hell I wasn’t moving.

I laughed as our whole life was strung out on the lawn outside of my parents house. I laughed at the idea that we had all of this stuff, all of this space and no place to put it.

I laughed at the annoying things–the twisted ankles, the slippery roads, the runaway dogs and messes I never get around to cleaning up–I laughed because we were all still alive and loving each other, knowing that those things are a long way from our hearts.

Because this year I helped build us a house,  jumped out of a damn plane, landed safely on the ground and ate the best fish taco I’ve ever had in my life next to the best friends they make.

This year the ranch, my home got, clean, fresh, bought and paid for water, I got a newspaper column, finished that album,
kept some promises and saw my world from the clouds.

This year I loved as much as I possibly could.

And next year I intend on opening that heart up even more.

I do.

Next year I will learn all of the words to Rocky Top. I’ll get practicing tomorrow.

Next year I will master meal planning, organization and the mandolin.

Next year I will play the harmonica on my new deck next to my garden busy growing tomatoes and basil and pumpkins I think.

Next year I will be 30.

 

Next year I’ll be ok with that.

Next year I’ll do sit-ups. And maybe some lunges.

Next year I’ll bake more bread, visit more friends, spend more time listening and saying the things that need to be said.

Next year I’ll walk to more hilltops just to sit for a while.

Next year I’ll drink too much coffee and red wine. Next year I’ll still love peanut butter

I’ll still love this.

And I’ll still love him.

I’ll always love him.

And at the end of any day, at the end of any year, that’s the most important thing anyway, no matter who’s climbing ladders, what catches fire or how many wild dreams (or wild dogs) we are chasing.

Thanks for hanging in there with us. Cheers to an adventure filled 2013.

And cheers to more laughter.

A quick Christmas Recap…

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Christmas finally arrived at the Veeder Ranch, leaving behind a wake of wrapping, boxes, bows, leftovers, a pretty severe sugar crash and one particularly annoyed pug.

It was our first Christmas in the new house and we were happy to put away the hammers and take some time to make a pie…

wrap some presents…

unwrap some presents…

and, well, torture the pug.

We broke some traditions this year, but unfortunately for that dog his Santa-suit-runway-walk will never be passed over.

Neither will the snowman cheeseball, even though it’s the same recipe I made just a month before for Thanksgiving, just, you know, it’s not shaped as a turkey this time.

No one ever tires of it. Every one loves it. Trust me.

Trust me.

Yes, it was a peaceful,

memorable,


delicious,

freezing cold,

super cute,

lovely Christmas

that began with a beautiful and thoughtful gift…

and ended with, well…this sexy little number.

Merry Christmas lovelies. I hope your holiday was better than his.

Nice try, really pathetic, but she ain’t gonna save you…

A Christmas Eve Eve Winner and your beautiful, winter photos!

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Merry Christmas Eve Eve!
It is snowing here at the ranch and we’re hunkered down, working on checking off the construction and pie making projects on our list. Between the hammering and measuring and baking, I want to take a moment to thank everyone who shared your favorite winter photos as part of my little holiday contest.

The world is truly a beautiful place, even in the chilly, snowy temperatures of late December (or tropical temps for some!) and you’ve proved it to be true all over the place! Being transported to your backyards through your photos has been a wonderful Christmas gift.

It was a difficult task, but Husband and I have chosen our favorite winter scene. I will tell you, this decision was thought out over a cup of coffee, discussed, narrowed and determined with the most serious consideration. We almost had a tie. We almost had an argument. Things got heated, but we were able to narrow it down.

Little Drummer Boy, will you please take a moment out of your “Par rum pu pu pumming” to roll that drum!?

Thank you.

And the winner is: Sybil Nun for bringing Husband and I to the coast of Nova Scotia!

Photo submitted by Sybil Nunn. “Winter at Peggy’s Cove.” Nova Scotia.

Sybil, your photo is so exotic. You brought us to a world so similarly frozen and so full of wonder. We could imagine standing on those snowy rocks feeling the cold damp air blowing off of the water, freezing our eyelashes and flushing our cheeks. We love it!

You’ll be receiving a signed copy of my new album “Nothing’s Forever” and a matted print of one of my favorite winter scenes!

To honor the time each of the participants and the beauty of our winter world, I decided to post the submitted photos here for the rest of you to see in case you missed them on Facebook.

Thank you everyone for playing along and sharing your frosty world with us. Thank you for reading. Thank you for showing up here week after week with your encouraging words, relatable stories and positivity.

Merry Christmas! May your holiday be filled with love and obnoxious sweaters, family and friends who are like family, beauty and laughter and delicious food and drink on colorful holiday themed platters!

Peace to you and yours, now enjoy the show!

Photo submitted by Faye Baker “Merry Christmas from Mercer County!”

Photo submitted by Vicki Overvold

Photo submitted by Barb Grover “Children and the wonders of winter” Oslo-Norway

Photo submitted by Jeanne Ramsay “Merry Christmas from Denver”

Photo submitted by Christie Jaeger “Winter photo of our cows” Esmond, ND

Photo submitted by Susan Price Slehofer “Winter from just across the border in Montana”

Photo submitted by Karen Grosz “My favorite calming photo.”

Photo submitted by Hugh Long “Merry Christmas from beautiful Key West!

Photo submitted by Lillian Crook “Buffaloberry Bushes, Painted Canyon, c, December 16, 2012”

Photo submitted by Dan Grogan. “Southwest Virginia, two seasons ago. Happy Holidays!”

Photo submitted by Annika G. Plummer. “Merry Christmas!”

Photo submitted by Rory Guenther. “Merry Christmas!”

Photo submitted by Rachel Dwyer. “Frozen cattails 🙂 Merry Christmas!”

Photo submitted by Rebekah Engebretson. “Fog’s friend left behind last week in Watford City.”

Photo submitted by Ed Barth.

Photo submitted by Robin Wahl. “Merry Christmas to you and yours. God bless.”

Submitted via email.

Photo submitted by Holly Mossberg. “This is my mare Elly and her offspring Dreamer in Feb. of 06 after they were pent up in the barn for two days.”

Photo submitted by Jess James.

Photo submitted by Jess James.

Winter Wonderland (Prize Alert!)

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I’m happy to report that it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here, and it isn’t just the giant, ten foot tall, six foot wide Christmas tree standing in the middle of the construction zone that is my home!

Nope, it’s because it has been a frosty winter wonderland for the past few weeks, bringing with it some sparky trees and fluffy soft snow.

I just love the way our world looks coated in a little frosting.

It almost makes me forget about the sub-zero temperatures and icy roads it produces. I mean, those elements are quite forgivable when they create for you a postcard worthy world.

Today the sun is shining and the frost has melted off the trees, but I spent a few moments this week trudging through the snow to capture those magical moments when things are sparkly and fresh so I could share them with you.

Because I think this is the way Christmas is supposed to look.

Now all we need is a one horse open sleigh to put these lazy, fluffy and hay fed horses to work!

In the spirit of the season I’d like to invite you to share with me your favorite winter photo from wherever you are. Post to my Facebook page, Husband and I will chose our favorite and you will win a signed copy of my new album “Nothing’s Forever” and a matted photo of one of my favorite snowy scenes.

I’ll pick the winner on Sunday (because I love Sundays) so share away! I can’t wait to see your world!

Merry Almost Christmas!

I wish you were here with us to make snow angles and frost sugar cookies.

Love, peace and snowmen.

Jessie

An inflatable Christmas miracle.

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winter

Well folks, the countdown to Christmas is on and I have to say my Christmas spirit has been looking a little less like Santas and snowflakes and snowmen and a little more like procrastination.

I have approximately ten days before Chris Kringle comes down my fake chimney and I haven’t so much as hung a stocking.

I had the best of intentions last weekend. I swept up the floor, moved the remnants of the tiling project out of the way, cleared the table of the leftover Thanksgiving decorative gourds and had a long talk with my wild cat about leaving the Christmas tree alone or else.

I even had the husband bring in the three boxes of Tupperware totes filled with all of my holiday cheer.

I was ready for a tree. I was ready for the lights. I was ready for Christmas to throw up all over this house.

I was ready to put the pug in the Santa Suit.

I even unwrapped a decorative dish.

And then I got distracted by a holiday prank that has been years in the making. And I’m telling you that it may go down as the only way to properly celebrate the holiday.

I’m not sure my mother would agree.

Ok, so here’s the deal. My mother is the Christmas queen. We’ve talked about this before. She decks the halls with boughs of holly, beautiful wreathes, hand-made wooden cowboy Santas,twinkling white lights, matching Christmas bulbs, beaded garland and a tree that stands upright, symmetrical and perfect in the corner of a family room glowing in the light of the subtle cinnamon candles flickering and highlighting the decor neatly placed on every surface.

My mother loves Christmas indeed. But it’s her own kind of Christmas. It’s a Christmas that blends in nicely with the season surrounding her outside. It’s kind of like how she only takes one bite of a fun-sized Snickers bar and wraps the other half back up and puts it in the fridge for later.

The woman has the self-control necessary to understand when enough is just perfect enough. She’s classy and soft and graceful and delicate and beautiful and she likes her Christmases that way.

Visit her house on the holidays and you will find fudge cut in perfectly bite sized squares on a simple red platter.

You will see white lights wrapped neatly along the cedar rail fence outside.

You will see mini pine trees lining her walkway and a wreathe on the door. You will hear Mannheim Steamroller music coming from within.

You will see and smell and taste all of these things and it will feel like Christmas. My mother’s Christmas.

And there won’t be an inflatable Santa in sight.

Because for as much love as my mother has for her holiday, she has an equal amount of passionate hate for Christmas decorations with faces that blow up and glow and wave and eclipse the perfectly lit and perfectly beautiful house behind them.

I mean, the woman can’t drive by an adorable puffy, air-filled Frosty without the uncontrollable urge to smack the thing across the face.

Or pop it with her keys.

Or shoot it with her nonexistent B.B. Gun.

Photo courtesy of karlfrankowski on Flickr, because I’m too busy dealing with my mother’s reaction to inflatables to take my own photo.

Seriously. Once we were strolling along a street in a quaint and peaceful small town, admiring the lights and feeling warm and fuzzy about the season and we came across a giant snow globe blowing air and styrofoam over an inflatable baby Jesus sleeping peacefully inside and I had to hold the woman back.

Her hatred is palpable and hilarious and a constant topic of holiday dinnertime discussion.

So as her loving family who have endured years of helping our dear mother trim the immaculate tree of her dreams while being denied tinsel, colored lights, battery operated ornaments and the Chipmunks Christmas album, we decided it was time to rebel.

But don’t blame me. No, don’t you dare. I’ve had the idea, but never the guts to put in place. Blame my Little Big Sister and her prankster husband. Blame their trip to the big town and the adorable, inflatable and giant cow wearing a Santa hat sitting next to the adorable, inflatable and giant pig wearing a Santa hat they found in one of those big box stores.

It had to be done.

And so it was. On December, 8  2012 the four of us put a plan into place that would finally give the inflatables a chance and leave my mother helpless to stop it.

Step 1: Get mom out of the house. Tell her you’re making chicken noodle soup. Tell her Big Little Sister, her husband and Little Man will be there. Tell her it will be fun.

Step 2: Distract the woman with wine and cheese and food and the grandkid.

Step 3: Make up a story about how the guys have to go out to the quonset to get the rest of your Big Little Sister’s Christmas decorations, a task that anyone who has ever seen the quonset knows could take up to one to thirty-seven hours, depending on the location of the desired item in the towering pile of junk that’s accumulated in there over the years.

Step 4: Try to keep a straight face as the boys put on their winter gear and head to your mother’s house to place that inflatable, adorable and  giant cow wearing a Santa hat next to the adorable, inflatable and giant pig wearing a Santa hat on the roof of your mother’s house.

Step 5: Try to keep a straight face as the boys return, say it’s time to go and your Big Little Sister makes up an excuse to stop over at her mother’s house on the way out so that she might catch a glimpse of her reaction to this prank.

Step 6: Wait until she leaves the driveway to follow them out so that you might catch it too.

Step 7: Laugh your ass off as you witness your Christmas Queen mother get out of the pickup, put her fists in the air and yell to the heaven’s “Whhyyy?! Whyyyyy?! Wwwhhhyyyyyy!?” before she turns toward your husband and brother-in-law and runs after them with those fists.

Step 8: Bwwwaahahahahahaha!

Inflatable prank

photo courtesy of Pops’ camera phone…

Step 9: Make no offer to remove them (and hide all the guns).

Hmm. Perhaps I have a little holiday spirit in me this year after all, but I guess that will happen when you witness a Christmas miracle.

Happy holidays. I hope your Christmas is shaping up to be exactly how you like, inflatable or no-inflatables.

But I hope there’s inflatables.

And a pug in a Santa suit.

A half-built house and how not to get unstuck

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12

Once upon a time in a land far away and frozen a cozy couple lived in a half-built cabin in the oak trees.

The couple loved the life they spent together surrounded by sawdust, pink sunrises, furry horses, cow plops and misbehaving dogs. On cold winter Saturdays they would spend the mornings drinking coffee and procrastinating the work they needed to get done. They refilled their mugs and fried some bacon while they ignored the unfinished steps, the untrimmed windows and the dangling loose wires. Saturdays were the best for waking up slowly.

Saturdays were the best for long breakfasts and watching the snow fall. If the cozy couple had their way they would spend every Saturday wrapped up in fluffy blankets and drowning things in syrup.

But they knew it couldn’t be. They also knew that as soon as they ran out of coffee, pulled on those coveralls and muck boots, wool caps and shoveling gloves, things had the potential to get slippery.

They did it anyway. Because the only way to get things finished was to start, even if it was nearly noon and they had to hitch up the horse trailer in a blizzard to make the 120 mile trip to the big town for lumber, tiles, decorative rocks, light bulbs, thirty seven socket fittings, plumping stuff, and a toilet.

So together they made a list with little boxes they could check off with the wife’s red pen and got to work.

The first task? Unhooking the pickup from the camper that for some reason was parked in the most inconvenient spot in the world and decidedly not moved in a more convenient season.

So the husband got to work scraping the windshield of his fancy, prized pickup outside while the wife stayed in the cabin for a bit to work on fitting her unruly hair underneath her cap and search for something presentable to wear for the trip to town.

Fifteen minutes into the hair-taming, clothes-searching extravaganza the husband opened the door of the unfinished cabin, letting the snow swoosh in with the wind as he stomped it off of his boots and declared he had a bit of an extravaganza of his own—the pickup was stuck in the frozen icy tundra of a landscape they called a front yard and he needed his wife’s help pull it out.

“It’s just a little stuck,” the husband reassured his kind-of frazzled looking wife. “It shouldn’t take much.”

Always willing to lend a hand or a scrawny arm, the wife quickly finished dressing, pulled another pair of pants over the ones she already had on (because that’s what you do in the frozen icy tundra) and followed her husband out the door and to the scene.

The husband laid out the plan nice and clear, aware that his wife often only hears about a quarter of the words that come out of his mouth.

He explained that she was going to be in charge of the stuck pickup that was attached to the stuck camper while he used an un-stuck pickup to pull the stuck pickup attached to the stuck camper out of its stuck situation.

He even turned the wheel in the direction the stuck pickup attached to the stuck camper needed to go once it was unstuck.

“All you have to do is press on the gas a bit until the tires spin and follow me out,” said the husband. “It shouldn’t take much.”

The wife understood that she needed to pay attention, but she was distracted. She worried about where she might have misplaced her favorite scarf, when she was going to find time to put up the Christmas tree, what type of tile to put in the bathroom and if this hat looked stupid with her wild hair escaping out by her ears.

She looked at her husband’s face as he gave her directions from outside of the stuck pickup attached to the stuck camper. She heard him say, “Press the gas” and admired the stubble on his perfectly square jawline as he reached over her bundled up body to turn the wheel. At times like these the wife thought her husband was the most handsome. She was happy to help. She was perfectly capable of this.

Press the gas.

Turn the wheel.

Follow him out.

She was thinking she would follow him anywhere as he bent over to attach the two vehicles together with a giant rope and walked toward the unstuck pickup and put it in drive.

The tires on the unstuck pickup spun as the rope tightened. The wife recalled her directions, pressed on the gas and turned the wheel, waiting for her brave and handsome husband to pull them out of this slippery situation so she could get out her red pen and check something off of their list already.

She was certain the wheels beneath her were giving it a go. She knew this truck had some oomph, but that pickup attached to the camper didn’t move an inch.

Geesh. It must be more stuck than her husband anticipated.

So the husband tried again, backing up and pulling the rope tight between them, this time kind of slipping sideways a bit as he gave it all he had.

The wife did the same, pressing on the gas pedal a bit more this time, revving the engine like she’s witnessed many a stuck man do in her lifetime. The approach was more vigorous, her confidence a bit shaken, but the outcome was the same.

She was really stuck.

The husband opened the door to his pickup and looked back at his wife, who peered at him from underneath a wool beanie behind the cracked windshield of his very prized and still just kinda stuck pickup, assessing the situation, appearing to have a few scenarios running through his problem-solving mind.

He shrugged his shoulders and got back in, shut the door and tried one last time.

He tugged and jerked on the other end of that giant rope. He kicked up snow and then ice and then earth with his tires. The wife pushed on the gas and pushed on the gas and pushed on the gas, using the only directions she was given and thinking that the next step was to get the damn tractor, wondering how the hell a man can get a pickup attached to a camper so unbelievably stuck out here. Wondering why in the hell they didn’t move this damn thing in the fall before the snow came. Wondering why her husband always procrastinates things like these, annoyed that it was taking so long, worried that they wouldn’t get to the lumber yard before it closed, wondering what the hell happened to her scarf and…

“Hey, heeeyyy! Heeeeyyyyyyy!” she heard her husband hollering from the open door of the unstuck pickup.

“Did you put the pickup in drive?”

The wife looked down, appalled at the accusation, but knowing it to be true as she found the little orange dot on the console pointing at “P.”

“P” for park.

“D” for drive.

The wife didn’t remember hearing that part of the instructions.

“Shit,” whispered the wife as she moved that orange dot to  “D” and pressed on the gas while the slack between the two vehicles tightened and moved them across the yard.

“Shit,” laughed the husband, shaking his head and unhooking the ropes.

“Shit,” said the wife again as she trudged back toward the unfinished cabin to look for her scarf and her red pen, thinking that Saturdays are the best for long breakfasts and watching the snow fall.

Thinking she should still be sleeping.

Thinking that a half-finished house in a land far away and frozen might be good enough for the rest of her life if it meant she might ever hear the end of this.

Knowing that wasn’t likely.

Dammit Cat.

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This cat is driving nuts.

Here she is pretending to sleep right before she woke up and flung her body toward my nose.


And here she is doing something else she’s not supposed to be doing.

I’d shoo her away but she just turns on me, ears back ready to attack my hand….wait…oh, yeah, here she is on my desk.

She’s not supposed to be doing this either. I mean I don’t want her wafting her stinky butt all over my paperwork.

Yeah, this cat farts. Like a lot.

Loud, squeaky ones.

I didn’t even know cats could fart.

I mean, I’ve never met an animal like this. She wakes up in the morning on a mission to annoy the hell out me. The first stop? Hiding under my bed while I get dressed so she can attack my feet.

Man that pisses me off.

But it’s not just the feet. I walk into the kitchen and she follows me like a blur, leaping up toward my body in an attempt to dangle from my bellybutton. I know it’s only a matter of time before it’s my ear.

I sit at my computer and she tries to murder my mouse in cold blood.

I fall asleep on the couch and she goes for my eyes.

I open a piece of candy and she snatches it out of my hands like a thief in the night.

I wear a hooded sweatshirt and she tries to strangle me with the strings.

I move and she’s lurking in the corner somewhere waiting to leap.

She terrifies me.

And she steals my socks. She grabs them out of the laundry and attacks them with a hot fury before dragging them off somewhere in the house to murder them and bury their remains. She’s got a taste for cotton, the fabric of our lives, she salivates for wool and has an insatiable hunger for nylon.

And I am left bare-footed.

In addition, I cannot find the string to my robe, which I’ve witnessed this animal harassing hundreds of times. I imagine she’s gone and buried it with the socks, leaving me to walk around all morning exposing parts of my pasty winter flesh to a world not quite ready for things like that.

Oh, it’s not just me who’s fed up. Big Brown Dog and his Big Brown Tail have suffered ninja-like assaults for months without the permission or the heart to fight back.

Even the pug, the world’s only canine cat whisperer, has expressed his frustrations at the surprise and unapproved cat piggyback rides with an eye roll and what I thought sounded a little like a growl.

The only two creatures in this house who seem to be satisfied with this little feline terrorist situation are the damn cat and the damn husband.

Because the damn cat was the damn husband’s idea.

And I think she knows it. I mean, I swear I saw her smirk at me while she was snuggling up next to him on the couch last night, so innocent and fluffy, full of purrs and kitten goodness.

“See,” said my damn husband. “She’s nice.”

But she’s not nice.

She farts.

She claws at my walls.

She climbs on the table.

She bites my favorite dog’s tail and is working really hard to take care of the pug’s only remaining eye.

And if that happens, well, we have a situation.

Oh, and you know what else is weird? The cat’s litter box is by the door. Every time someone enters through that door the wierdo races to her litter box and proceeds to take a shit, a sort of “look what I can do move” while she makes these really weird pushing noises.

I don’t understand? Does she save these shit’s for company? Can she shit on cue?

Seriously. That’s a real thing.

I would videotape it but I already feel awkward enough having just written that sentence.

Am I really talking about cat-shitting here?

Damn you cat! What have I become?

If you need me I’ll be looking for my socks.