Viva!

We stayed at the Flamingo, the hotel that Billy Wilkerson (and the infamous Bugsy Siegel) built in 1945. It was overall classier than the Imperial Palace, but the rooms weren't necessarily nicer. The restaurants were better, certainly, and it felt a little bit less like a frat-house party. Here's the view from my hotel room window:

We met a very, very tall pirate at Margaritaville. Beth tried on some Flamingo apparel. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My daddy raised me to be a big nerd, so I brought 20 $2 bills with me to Vegas. I tipped almost everyone with these, and so took a picture of my last one. I didn't get a lot of reaction, but the cocktail waitress at the Imperial Palace squealed "Oh! Great! For my collection!" and the security guard who found my wallet (it's a long story. I'll tell you later) said "Cool. You don't see these everyday."

Here's the first round of dessert at the buffet in Paris. Eclair, cheesecake, creme brulee. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I made Beth and Mary promise to have my casket made of creme brulee.I think this is Wednesday morning. Did I mention they give you free drinks in Vegas as long as you're gambling? Yeah. So I woke up, and decided to take a picture of the morning after debacle, and then post it on my blog. Vegas apparently affects my judgement on many levels.

Later, we went downtown, which is somewhere we didn't go last year. Downtown is much less polished than the Strip, and there are fewer women in 6" acrylic stilettos. It feels like a whole different city, really, and we liked it a lot. Here's the Fitzgerald, where I won the most money of the trip.

This is in the bathroom at the Golden Nugget, I think. It epitomizes the difference between the Strip and downtown. The Strip has no signs like this in their bathrooms, at least that we saw. More downtown shots. This year we tried on a lot of stuff.My freakishly large head does not allow actually "trying on" so much as "perching upon."

It was a delightful trip all around: good food, shiny lights, kind people, and pina coladas. And the two best traveling companies a girl could want.

Viva Las Vegas, baby.

I Make Books

I know, I know. I've got a lot of Vegas to share with you, and I've already been home for five days. But I'll get on that. Also my 36th birthday deserves some sharing. But first, I'm reading blog posts all about stuff I meant to say even before I left for vacation. How embarrassing!

Here's the latest reminder. Miss Susie over at boygirlparty posted a great tutorial for making your own notebooks. (I just read that today, and made these notebooks before I left for Vegas. Hence my hurried "Wait! I thought of this too!" post...not that I invented notebooks...) I like Moleskines as much as the next girl, but I'm too cheap to shell out that much cash. These are a marvelous compromise, plus I can make them look exactly as I want. Rhonda at My Handbound Books did these a while back (scroll down to the second photo), and made me start collecting cereal boxes, which is the absolute last thing I need to do in my palace of collected junk. So in an attempt to use/reuse, I made these.

These little booklets have 16-24 pages (32-48, back to back) machine sewn into cardboard box covers. They're about 4 x 6 inches. There are about three more, but as soon as I laid them out for a photo, V squealed "Books! I wanna play library!" Then she scooped them all up and shoved them in a variety of bookshelves around the house. I could only find these four. I may never locate the others again.

You can see my stitching isn't as neat or lovely as Susie's, because, as usual, I'm more of a "get 'er done" gal than a "get 'er exactly right" type. I do like the orange thread I used, though, and the paper is from Keiffer's, a local this-and-that store that bought up some sort of art supply surplus and has this great creamy artists paper with a perfect tooth for $1 a sheet. (I can make 2 notebooks out of one sheet). Which means each notebook cost me 50 cents to make, as opposed to Moleskine's $12 a pop or so. For those of you keeping score. Which I am.

I brought the Swiss Chocolate Milk book with me to Vegas, and kept a running scrapbook. As I got receipts/matchbook covers/free crap, I pasted whatever would fit into the pages. It's not quite full, but almost, and I could write about things as I pasted them in, making the usual "pile of vacation stuff" a lot easier to understand and appreciate already.

As a side note, you should also check out Rhonda's steampunk journals: I find steampunk to be an interesting phenomenon, and if I was a boy in a city, I'd be all over it. But as a 36 year old woman in moderately sized town, I just admire from afar.

I wanna quit my job and bind books for a living, but so many people are doing it so wonderfully, I think I should probably stick to teaching. At least until there's a surge in the "get 'er done" style at which I have become so adept...

More unbearable cuteness

Jess and I were blessed with 9 sets of aunts and uncles. While we were growing up, three sets lived on our very street: we were never too far from a friendly snack or bathroom (though now that I write that, I don't know that I've ever met an unfriendly bathroom...). At any rate, these men and women helped raise us, provided examples of personality, marriages, and beliefs that varied widely from each other, and through them we felt the love of a large extended family that helped us feel deeply connected to our community and the world.

So I don't take aunthood lightly: when V and Will were born, Jess and I occassionally lamented to each other, "I would totally be a better aunt if I didn't have my own newborn/toddler/force of nature to reckon with." Though I was there when Will was born, I didn't get to absorb his babyhood much, because I had my own baby to get to know.

Now that the older cousins are 3 1/2, and Emmy is ten months of giggly babyness, I'm feeling much more of an aunt groove. When I see Will at school, he runs toward me at full speed, throwing his arms around my knees and squeezing hard. It's the best feeling, to be loved like that. Emmy's infancy has allowed me to enjoy the growth of a little one without the exhaustion that comes when that little one is mine. She has a mouth full of teeth, a sparkling laugh, and curious eyes that follow the blur of her brother around the yard.

And V and Jess speak each other's language. They are not necessarily similar in personality, but Jess gets down next to V and talks to her, and V listens more carefully to Jess than just about anyone. After I've turned away in frustration, Jess is still willing to explain things to her, and Jess inspires me to be a more patient Mama myself.

V only has three sets of aunts and uncles, 1/3 as many as I did. But those three sets vary widely in many ways, too, and though we don't live in the same city as any of them, I hope she feels the connection of family from here to Denver to Minneapolis to Hendrum. I hope Will, Emmy, and Jake all know that I would gladly give them a kidney if they needed it, and that I love them so very much, and I'm so lucky to be their aunt.

I swear I'm not trying to rub this in.

In 36 hours, I'll be enjoying this weather:

Five-day Vegas Forecast

Mon 103°/77°sunny
Tue 98°/73°sunny
Wed 96°/72° mostly sunny
Thu 95°/71°mostly sunny
Fri 95°/72° partly cloudy

Instead of this weather:

Five-day Fargo Forecast

Mon 70/35 partly cloudy/wind
Tue 61/54 partly cloudy
Wed 79/53 isolated thunderstorms/wind
Thu 62/41 partly cloudy/wind
Fri 64/44 sunny

The sunscreen is already packed, as are some bejeweled sunglasses. I can hardly wait!

Insane amounts of cuteness

As promised, here's the report from Sunday's trip to Good Hope Township.

As we turned down the road that would take us to Nancy and K.C.'s, and V spoke up from the back seat, concerned. "What's that noise?!?" As I answered her "It's just the gravel on the road, honey," I realized with a jolt that she had never been on a gravel road before. My daughter, at 3 1/2, had never been on a gravel road.

Somewhere my father is shaking his head in amazement. I don't think he was on a paved road until he was 15 or so.

A couple of weeks ago, I was telling V a story about before she was born. I said "When I was pregnant with you, we had our wood floors refinished, and that's when we got rid of our piano."
She sat up straight in her car seat and said "What?"
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Didn't I tell you? We used to have a piano. But we gave it away."
She burst into tears. "Why did you do that?" she asked between sobs. The only way I could calm her down was to remind her that Nancy had a piano and we could come and visit, if we liked.
So on Sunday, the first thing she wanted to see was the piano.

Though it was sunny and lovely outside, it was tough to tear her away from the piano, even though she has a great hat. Here she is by Fej, looking very 1920's Cabana-y.

Finally it was kitty time. Here is V holding her first ever baby kitty.

She's not sure if she likes it or not.

Here's the pile of kitty goodness. 13 in all, from two or three different mamas. They are new and tiny and so adorable it made my skin hurt to look at them.

Shari quickly fell in love...

As did Crystal. It was funny how we each gravitated immediatedly towards different kittens. Meanwhile, Ramona watched the festivities, obediently waiting outside the barn where the baby kitties were, playing fetch with a yellow ball, and finding deep muddy water somewhere to wade in. We've all known Ramona since she was just a puppy herself.

As a grown up labradoodle, she's the perfect size for V to ride on now, if we could just locate ourselves a labra-saddle.

Finally, the main reason for this little shin-dig (aside from lovely weather, baby kitties, pianos, and a strong desire to avoid grading): Nancy and KC's new pupdog.

He's 9 weeks old, and he REALLY makes my skin hurt. He's got these beautiful gray-green eyes, and he follows anyone anywhere, and he loves to be held.

We brainstormed names, including Jasper, Rufus, Scooter, Skeeter, Skeetch, Darl...But I think they've decided on O'Riley. Riley O'Riley Hanson. As cute as puppies get.

Whatcha makin'?

So my kid is 3 1/2, which means in theory she should be in 3-4T clothes. But those sizes companies assign to clothes? Misleading at best, and in our case, plain old wrong. V's waist fits perfectly in 2T pants. But her legs are at least 4T, 5T in most pants. Which means she either wears high-water capris, or she has to constantly hike her pants back up over her non-existent hinie.

What's a mother to do? Why, make some V sized pants, of course. I used the tutorial here.

Here she's climbing on the monkey bar shadow (I like how her brain works) wearing some denim-weight pants with cute owls and leaves. The fabric is from the juvenile dept. at JoAnns.

Next: capris. I actually made about 8 pairs before these, and the ribbon made my brain hurt (but it's not hard, really). But since summer is coming, it just had to happen. The fabric is from the 99 cent bin at Mill End, and has a smooth side and a slightly less smooth side. I put the smooth side out.

See? No hinie.

These are today's pants. These were the easiest ones yet: made from a butter yellow linen skirt, I just cut out the pieces with the hem intact.

Comfortable, long enough, and no need for hoisting up. What else could a girl want?

Oh, right. An ICEE.

We're off to visit a friend in the country this afternoon. There are baby kitties, we're told. Prepare for upcoming cuteness overload.

29 April 2009

Today is Ricky Ohren's 36th birthday. I know this because he and I started school together in 1978 and graduated together in 1991 and every year on April 29th, he shared his birthday with my Grandma Minnie. In 5th grade he had a big boy-girl birthday party for the whole class, and I don't remember why but I had to leave early, and they all watched "All of Me" with Lily Tomlin and Steve Martin, and I was jealous for years.

But Ricky Ohren is not why I'm writing this post. I'm writing this post for Minnie, my paternal grandmother, who was born at home in her parent's house in Hendrum 108 years ago today. It was a house her grandfather built with his brother, and was the house where, 29 years later, she'd give birth to my father. She did no things of great record in her lifetime: she spoke only Norweigan until she started school at age 6; she liked to dance when she was younger, was married to the same man for 40 years (until he died) and lived another 30 without him. She raised four children, though the birth certificate of the fourth lists 6 births, but she never spoke of any others, and if anyone asked her, she likely didn't answer. She was very hard of hearing, so that when I walked into her house, my father taught me to turn on the dining room light so as not to startle her too much. She belched and farted and never said "Excuse me" (but she was 72 already when I was born. Who did she have to ask to excuse her?). She was not terribly kind, and was rather selfish in many ways, but she loved her children and grandchildren deeply. When her second son, my father, had a stroke at 55, she was 85, and I think it broke her heart every time she saw him afterwards. For several years, they lived in the same nursing home, and she would check up on him, look at his dinner plate after he was done eating, crane her neck to see him in the hallway. It drove him crazy, but now, as a mother myself, I don't blame her a bit.

When we were little, we would come home from school with pictures we'd painted just for her, but she would never take them. My mother says we came back in tears from her house many times because of this, and it made my mother angry; I like to think, though, that she didn't not take them because they were crappy children's artwork, but because she didn't feel worthy. She suffered from depression for much of her life, I suspect, and had some difficulties with it even when she was younger. But the photos of her as a young woman show a smiling, bright eyed Norweigan girl, with a sweet bobbed haircut and a look of daring about her. Babies, farm life, the Great Depression, two world wars...she had seen so much more than I can imagine.

I hope she knew I loved her, that I didn't mind the dusty old candy she'd press into our hands, or the TV turned up way too loud. I hope she knew I would always remember the smell of her house, the sound of her voice, and the blue in her eyes.

Happy birthday, Grandma Minnie.

Spring was lovely. And now it's gone.

But we enjoyed it while it was here.

We are fortunate enough to live within a few blocks of several fancy playgrounds, and for about a week, we saw a different one almost every day.

She has no fear at all yet, about anything. It's wonderful and terrifying all at once, and I'm trying hard not to let my fears become hers. She's at the fiercely independent yet terribly needy and clingy stage.
And more and more she plays on her own, oblivious to me except for when she turns away from the camera to keep me from getting the photo I want.

She's still so little, but I can glimpse the other side, when I'll be on the outside looking in.

It's still a ways off, though, so long as she can sit in the baby swings, and even prefers them; she says "Higher, mama! But not too high..."
I push, and she laughs, and I laugh too.

I've got friends in low places

A couple of weeks ago, at the end of our floodcation, Nancy, my friend and colleague, posted on Facebook that she and her husband were heading out to a nearby bar with a pocketful of quarters and an intent to play pool until they were tired. Nine more of us showed up (hail, Facebook!) and it was a refreshing reminder of how good it is to be somewhere different with good, smart, funny people. And eat bar food, and play darts, and pool, and the jukebox.

Great idea, Nance.

In like a lion...out like a pissed off baracuda.

V has been home from school for a week and a half: we can't get to Grandma's, and most of the stores/movie theaters/places of entertainment have been closed during this time. We all have a terrible case of cabin fever. So we bundled up and went out to the backyard yesterday, to burn off some three year old energy, dig for treasure, eat falling snowflakes, and make snow angels.

You may recognize this bonnet from last winter, when it was new. I could make her a new one, but this one still fits, and I'm lazy. The pattern is from Amy Karol's Angry Chicken pattern. It looks like they're restocked for Easter. It's a well written, easy to follow pattern that takes me a little less than an hour, start to finish. (There are many more examples in this flickr group.)

V likes the bonnet because it keeps her ears warm, and it also shields her eyes from the sun. Yesterday it helped keep the snow from blowing straight into her face. I think bonnets are so underappreciated in today's world.


Anyway, as you can see, at least one person in Fargo-Moorhead had fun yesterday. Hope you find time to make yourself a snow angel today.

Insult to injury

Sarah and Robby's, yesterday. The plank in the forefront is the railing of the deck. You can see on the tree where the river crested, froze, and is now dropping. This is the view out of their basement door. On the other side of those sandbags is over 5 feet of river water. It's kinda freaky.

Anyway, the water is receding, slowly, but right now it's snowing. They tell us this precipitation will not significantly change the river levels, but it certainly slows down traffic and makes me worry about powerlines and Hendrum, too, where my mom and sister and her family live.
The snow is coming very fast, but as you can see it is fairly light.

Our house remains safe and dry, thankfully. With this new snowstorm will come strong winds, and so we hope the levees hold, and the giant ice sheets on the Red hold the water down and don't become battering rams that break through.

It feels as though spring will never come.

Waiting for a miracle

Most of my dear readers know that our city, Moorhead, Minnesota, is waging an enormous flood fight. It's difficult to blog about as it happens, because there is so much uncertainty, and any minute I'm not trying to directly make things better I feel guilty. But Shaun is working today, so I'm home with V with no vehicle, so here we sit, and here I blog.

On Saturday & Monday I was at Sarah & Robby's, friends of ours who have a beautiful home. On Rivershore Drive. Their house takes water at 36 feet, and our crest (which is still rising) is predicted between 41-43 feet. This photo is from their back deck, which normally stretches 100 yards or more to the river (I think. I'm not great with distance, but it's a ways). The river is at about 34 feet in this picture. That little black dot in the center of the photo is their tire swing. Man, I hate it when my tire swing is 9 feet underwater.

A few days ago, Fargo's mayor suggested we should all be prepared for evacuation. Better to be prepared than not. So I gathered a few things: it's daunting, though, thinking about leaving. In all likelihood, our basement would fill with water, but little on our main floor would be affected (at least that's what I'm telling myself). It's more of a matter of what we absolutely need to live a week or two away from home. I packed all our medications, our IDs, V's social security card/birth certificate/baby book, our wedding/honeymoon/reception photos. Then I packed 3 pairs of underwear for each of us. And then I stopped. Because really, as I'm watching people staggering under the exhaustion of sandbagging and worry, I figured we could wear the same clothes for a few days until the crest passed and we could come back home. Despite the fact that I'm a packrat, material possessions do not define me, and though we don't have flood insurance, we would manage. There is so little in our lives that is irreplaceable.

But now it's a few days later, and I find myself packing a second suitcase. Clothes, pajamas, socks for all three of us. A couple of the collage projects I've completed. V's harmonica. Then I remembered that tucked away in a corner of the basement, I had a few things I might miss, after all.

On the left, a pile of quilt blocks I forgot I even owned. I'm not at all sure how to put them together, but I'm not leaving them to be eaten by the river, either. In the center is a completed quilt top, the only one I have that's not quilted, and the hardest pattern I've ever done (which is funny, since I've only done about 3 patterns in my life). On the right is our reception guest book, which I made in the form of quilt blocks, and which all our friends and family signed. It makes my stomach hurt, now, to think I might have left those behind. I would've been really, really upset. I'm upset at myself for not remembering them in the first place.

Now, though, they're tucked safely away in a suitcase by our door, awaiting further orders. Hopefully the river will crest lower than predicted. Hopefully all the sandbags and clay will hold the water. Hopefully life will be back to normal soon. Because I have some quilts I need to finish up.