Collector of Treasures

First, Shaun has a job. He's almost 2 weeks into a full-time night shift position at a local truck stop/gas station, and we're so grateful for the work, and we're busy getting used to a whole new schedule. It's really, really, really a relief, and I thought you'd all want to know. So now, on with the post.

When I taught World Literature in Crookston, we studied a short story by Bessie Head, "The Collector of Treasures." It's a marvelous story with love, romance, friendship, violence, imprisonment, indictment of patriarchal society....everything you want in a good story. The main character collects treasures in her heart, all the kindnesses shown to her in her life. It's a striking image, and one I try to emulate. Especially when the shit seems most dismal, those treasures really help.

And I've been blessed by many treasures lately. So many of you have emailed kind messages of support to me or to $haun, or patiently listened to my sad stories, or even kept us in your thoughts over the last few months. I treasure all of those. Two colleagues at work gave me a fantastic altered journal and two cold Cokes to cheer me up before break (it worked!).  And one day, several weeks ago, a package appeared in the mail. It was shortly after this post appeared, but all I could think was "What on earth did I order? We can't afford to spend any money!" But I hadn't: it was a present, from Tom, one of my first bestest friends (and high school sweetheart).  

It was during the hardest time of the last few months, and I can't begin to tell you how much it brightened my world. I'd been so melancholy for that record for so long, it never even occurred to me that I could get another. Aside from reminding V of the importance of not saying "bitch" in polite company, mostly I've been humming "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" whenever it's not playing on the turntable these last few weeks. And that it came from Tom, whom I haven't seen in well over ten years, who knew my dad and probably helped me look for that damn record in our basement more than once, made it even better.

Thank you all for the treasures you've sent, in thought or electronic or paper or carbonated or vinyl form, over these dark months. They've lightened my heart so, so much.

Y'all are the best there's ever been.

Winter fun

Last week, we had a lovely little Wednesday snow day, so V and I and Seven went outside to play. We had big snowperson plans: so big, V was a little scared it might fall on her. I assured her I was an excellent snowperson builder. And Seven was very, very excited.

Making snow angels:

 Our snowman. Isn't he handsome? And enormous.....

 ...ly tiny.

 (Shut up. The snow didn't stick as well as we thought it would).

Except to Seven. Poor Seven could barely walk by the time we went in. It took him three hours to thaw out, and he spread wet-dog-smelling snow water all over the house in the process.

All in all, a successful snow day adventure. Even with all the wet doginess, and the tiny, tiny snowperson.  What's your favorite thing to do outside?

Crafty Fool

Because Shaun started his new job today (whoo-hoo!) I felt I could allow myself to go to a craft store again, so long as I was careful and thoughtful and not my usual crazy, grabby self. My sister had mentioned that JoAnn's had diaper making supplies now, including a snap-setter, and I wanted to check it out.

The three of you who've been reading since the beginning may recall a brief mention of our cloth-diapering times, when I made all the diapers V wore throughout her diaperwearing. It was rewarding, and kind of fun, and V heard a lot of the hum of the sewing machine even while in utero.

But it was hard freaking work, too. Almost all the supplies had to be purchased online, or, if you're as cheap as me, bought at the local discount fabric shop and made to work, somehow. The little hand-set snaps available would never have held up to diaper use, nor would the sew-on kind, but an industrial snap press was $100, and though I nearly caved three times, I resisted temptation and used velcro instead.

So it was with mixed emotions that I found a fabulous diaper-making section in JoAnn's, now that my baby is 6 1/2 years old.

The snap press is what I had dreamed of: handheld (as opposed to the industrial kind, which was...bigger), solid metal, and under $20 (with my 40% off coupon, it was about $12; after reading the online reviews, I wouldn't pay much more than that, but I've had really good luck with the 8 snaps I've installed so far...).  V's diapers would've rocked even MORE if I'd had one of these puppies back then. So I thought to myself, well, it's still a neat tool. What else could I use a snap-press for?

 I make some of V's clothes, and it will be handy for those, certainly. And then I was looking at some yellow denim my friend Robin gave me, and I thought, hm...I think I'll make a braclet.

So I made three.

Bracelets above, from top to bottom: using some of my precious tulip ribbon; one of my favorite fabrics ever; and a reversible "believe/create". They're all reversible, actually. Look at those pretty snaps! (The snaps don't come with the pliers: I bought the blue/red/green pack for $8, with another 40% off coupon, so about $5 for 30 complete snap sets).

 Extreme close-up of the "create" side. Clearly, my machine's tension is way off (Emily, can you fix that for me? Or Jennifer? Or anyone?), but it makes almost a baker's twine look of the stitching. I kind of like it. And also, I learned it's really hard to write words using a sewing machine. Worth it, but hard. I'm also envisioning lots of crazy, mini-quilt-for-your-wrist possibilities. I may never leave the basement, at this rate.

I was so excited to make this one, I didn't even change the thread color.

In retrospect, I wish I would've bought the industrial press 6 years ago. I mean, if this $20 purchase holds up, that's awesome, but I'm liking putting snaps on things so much I may have to quit my job and become a professional snap setter. Oh, snaps, where have you been all my life?

So what other words should I attempt to make into bracelets? What do you want your wrist quilt to look like?

Naked Face (with an obscene gesture warning)

The truth is, all three of my long-term romantic relationships were with brown-haired men with red beards. I dated Tom, off and on, for over 8 years (there's a post about him coming up soon, too). We started dating when I was 14 and he was 15, so I didn't know he had a red beard at the time, but by the end, he'd been bearded for a good while. A year later, when I brought Matt home to Hendrum for the first time, Sam at the gas station said "Is that Tom in the car with you??" Um, awkward...No, Sam. That's my new boyfriend who just happens to look like Tom.

It turns out the third time's the charm.

Shaun and I first met because of Dan & Tenessa. Dan and Shaun worked together at WDAY, a local newstation, and I was in D & T's apartment one day (they lived just above me) and saw a photo of this handsome young man with dark hair and a red beard. "He's cute," I said.Tenessa's cupid sensor lit up and they told me about this Shaun Ganyo fellow. I liked him long before we met.

 He had a beard when we started dating. During the 2 1/2 years before we got married, he sometimes went down to a goatee, and shaved it off totally just once. I prefer the beard. My favorite look of his is above, with short hair and a ridiculously long beard. People tend to come up to him and ask stupid questions about it, when it's that long. It makes me happy.

Mostly, he has a beard because he's lazy. Shaving takes work, apparently. But every now and again, he gets his monstrous beard trimmed, or I trim it. Above is Christmas this year. I think we trimmed it because the weekend before we'd gone to his parents' house, and his mom really, really likes it when his beard isn't too crazy.

One of the first things we talked about when he got fired was him shaving his beard. He hasn't shaved it off in over ten years; V's never seen him without it, and we've established I have a clear preference. And he's still lazy. I talked him into keeping the beard, but cutting it way back, to a reasonable length. Above is a couple of weeks ago, out at the lake. Well-groomed, non-ZZTop-ish. 

 But he hasn't gotten a job yet. And he read something online that said bearded men are less likely to be chosen in a job search when cleanshaven men are also applying. So I gave in and said he could shave it. Last night, with V's help, he cut off the well-groomed red and gray whiskers. In trying to get a picture of him cleanshaven, though, he refused to let me see him unless he was flipping the camera off. So my apologies, gentle readers, for the delicate among you.

But here he is. Would you hire this guy? Would you marry him? 

Here's hoping it unlocks all kinds of employment opportunities. V just calls him "Naked Faced Daddy" now, but if we can call him employed, it will all have been worth it. Besides, it'll grow back right quick, once he's securely working and they like him too much to let him go.

Just like me.



Oh, lighten up.

Too many heavy posts makes Languishing a preachy blog. Here're some photos from a recent family dinner.



Our blue-eyed girl.

Emmy's heart was broken, somehow. I think Will may have made her cry, or maybe we ran out of ketchup...at any rate, Uncle Shaun talked her through it, and Seven was emotionally supportive. It all worked out in the end.

Stories I Tell My Students: Walking in the Dark

As I think about the stories I tell my students, I realize that many of them involve gender issues. So often my students, especially the 18-20 year olds, come to my classes believing that inequality between the sexes is a thing of the past, something their mothers and grandmothers had to contend with once upon a time. So I tell them my stories, and see if they think that's still true.

Several years ago, back when I lived just a few blocks from downtown Fargo, my friend Bayard and I stayed at Lauerman's, a bar that's not there anymore, until closing time. It was around 1:30am when we started walking home, and it was a lovely summer's night. We hadn't had so much to drink that we were impaired, really, and I remember the night clearly.

Bayard lived three blocks closer to the bar than I did, in The Gardner, a big security builiding that used to be a hotel. We walked west on 1st Avenue north, laughing and talking, until we got to his door.
"You want me to walk you home?" he asked. I laughed at him.
"Nah. It's just three blocks. Have a good night."

For those of you who are unfamiliar, 1st Avenue North is a one-way street, very busy during the day, but almost totally deserted after midnight. Aside from the former hotel-turned apartments, it's lined with little shops, and across from Bayard's building is the federal courthouse (where Leonard Peltier was convicted of murder).  There's a lovely art museum, an insurance office, and other small office buildings. Nothing at all is open after 7pm. The nearest gas station was 6 blocks away, past my apartment by several blocks. And the security of Bayard's building is not like other security buildings: there's no entryway where you can run in and buzz to be let in. At this time, in the late 90s, you had to go to the payphone up the block and call whomever you were visiting to come down and let you in.

At this point in my story, the men tend to seem quite bored. I wasn't terribly drunk, so they don't see how this story could get interesting. The women, though, almost every one of them is sitting up straighter, staring at me, with a touch of fear in their eyes. They know where this story is probably headed. And that difference in reaction is exactly why I tell this story.

About a block further, as I'm walking, happy with my dear friends and thinking about my little apartment, a man turns the corner toward me. He's about my size, maybe a little taller, probably thinner than me. He looks to be in his late 40s or early 50s. He's just walking, coming my direction, on the same sidewalk I'm on. There are no cars near us, and the stoplights will soon start blinking off and on, as they did at 2am back then.

I stop my story. The women are leaning toward me, wanting to know what happens. The men are looking out the window, or at the carpet. Sometimes, though this is rare, one or two men will be listening carefully.

By name, I call on the most verbal of the men. "What would you do?" He usually looks a little sheepish, because he hasn't been fully paying attention, and he usually doesn't understand the question.

"I'd keep walking. What else would I do?"

Then I open it to the women, who are itching to speak, by now. "Ladies?"

"I'd taze him!" "Did you have pepper spray?" "I'd get on my cell phone and at least pretend to call the cops!" "I'd cross the street, or run the other way."

The men are almost always startled, thinking they missed some important part of the story. To prove my point further, I ask the women, "Where would your keys be?" They almost always have the same answer.

"In my hand, with one out that I can use as a weapon if I need to." They nod together, as if this is the only answer.

I repeat the story, from when I left Bayard at the apartment until the man turns the corner and begins to walk toward me. I ask the men why they think the women react so differently from them. This man showed no malice, appeared to carry no weapon, and clearly was not following me, but just minding his business. He was not enormous and didn't have a wicked mustache he was twirling evilly. The men squirm uncomfortably, realizing that the possible violence women face is more than they realized, and more deeply feared than they knew. The women are often surprised that the men don't know this is our reality.

They want to know how the story ends, so I tell them. I crossed the street, almost immediately, and the man knew why I did, too. He called out to me, "You don't have to be afraid of me. Honest!" Which, as is clear as soon as I say it out loud, is not a comforting thing to say to a woman on a desolate street late at night. "I know," I called back, and walked the block and a half to my apartment, listening for footsteps the whole way, locking the door behind me.  I do feel bad for that guy, who was almost certainly just minding his own business, and who probably had no intention of harming anyone, that night or any night. His intentions didn't matter to me, then, though.

The women point out that we have to do those things, to assume the worst, in order to protect ourselves. I point out that it's a terrible thing, to have so much of our energy go to that kind of self-preservation. 

I'm not sure which reaction makes me more sad: the complete surprise from so many of the men, or complete acceptance of this as how the world works from so many of the women. Both, I guess, just break my heart. Which is why I keep teaching, in the end.

I Told You Once, You Son of a Bitch...

As a little girl, my music influences were...eclectic. We had church music, of course. And then the record player at home...my dad was 43 when I was born, and his musical tastes were a whole generation behind my friends' parents. Which was awesome, really. We listened to a lot of Burl Ives, some Hank Williams, Sr.; The Louvin Brothers; Patsy Cline and other old coutry groups. Once a month or so, in music class, we got to bring a record from home and we'd all listen to each others' favorite songs. I don't even remember the music other kids brought, but I loved listening to Country Death Ballads with all my classmates. (Now that I've typed that sentence, I'm not sure why child services never showed up at our house).

The other music I listened to was "new" country, on the radio at our babysitter's. She had a transistor on top of her fridge, and the only thing better than a country death ballad was a little "Rhinestone Cowboy," Eddie Rabbit, or any Crystal Gayle. The edgiest song on country radio in the late 70s/early 80s was, at least in my experience, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Oh, I loved that song.  Though Johnny was a little overconfident when he dismissed the devil, I wanted to own the record more than anything in the world.

I didn't even realize, then, that one could purchase new record albums. I thought you either listened to your dad's records, or lucked out a garage sale. (We were simple people).  The day I saw the album, in a milk crate jn a driveway in North Moorhead, I almost wet my pants. It was probably 1981 or 82, and there was hardly any wear on cover. It was, as I recall, marked 50 cents.

My dad didn't even argue or tease me, make me think I wasn't going to get this. He knew how much I loved this song. We brought it home, and I bounced in the backseat all 28 miles. I stared at the cover, I read the titles of every other song...I slid the record out just to look at how long my song would play. It was my first record just for me, that I had picked out. Oh, music class, I was going to impress everyone next month!

We had to unload the car, and take out the dog, and finally, after Mom had started supper, Dad put the record on the player. The familiar fiddle music, the talk-song lyrics....I was dancing in the living room. I was so happy I even let my sister dance, too. And then came the best line of the song..."I told you once, you son of gun..." only he didn't say "gun." This was not the radio version Charlie Daniels, the G-rated, FCC approved Charlie Daniels. As my dad reached for the power switch, I started making my case. "I know what that word means, dad, and I will never, ever, ever say it. I'll sing 'gun' really loud every time it's on. I swear." But it was too late. He slid the record back into the barely worn sleeve, and took it down to the basement, where there were the best hiding places. For months I begged for that record, and though Dad was sympathetic, he would not be moved. When I'd given up begging, I tried to find it myself when my parents weren't home. I spent hours in that damn basement.

In 1986, after Dad's stroke, I knew I was running out of time. Aphasia or no aphasia, I was going to have that record. After he moved home from the rehab hospital, I asked him where he'd hidden it. He grinned at me.

"Is it in the basement?" I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. "Is it in the garage?" Still grinning, still shrugging. "Did you forget where you hid it?"

"Ah, nope." He couldn't say much, but he could say that.

"You're still not gonna tell me, are you?"

"Ah, no. No, no, no." And he grinned.

I've learned many more curse words since then, but I still haven't found that record. Wherever he put it kept it safe from my tender ears.  I reckon he's still proud of himself for that. 

Bag sale

In the shower this morning, I suddenly realized it was time for the Dakota Boys and Girls Ranch $4 bag sale! And I was late! You can imagine my horror.

I arrived 45 minutes after opening, which means about 70% of the clothes were already gone. But I still managed to fill two bags and find a 79 cent doll for V.

This round's haul included:

• 2 pairs of pants for me (one for work, one for leisure)
• a basic red tank top for me
• 1 pair of khakis for Shaun (in case he gets a job)
• 1 tie for Shaun (some jobs require ties. Can you imagine?)
• 11 or 12 tops for V and/or Will and/or Emmy. Mostly these are plain sweatshirts, that I have big plans for embellishing.
• 1 brand new shirt for my father-in-law (his birthday is in a couple of weeks)
• 1 full-length camel-hair coat. I'm not sure, but I think the camel hair will act much like felt, so I'm going to try to use it as such.
• 1 Talbot's black corduroy dress, size 12. This won't fit anyone in the family, but it's long, so there's lots and lots of corduroy to harvest for other projects. I would feel bad about cutting up a perfectly good dress, and if you're desperate to own a long, well-made dress that is not very stylish but is certainly nice enough, let me know and I'll give it to you.

So there you go. No great finds like the vintage dresses here and here, but that's what I get for sleeping in. All in all, it was well worth the $8.79. Now let the laundering commence!

Winter quiet

Hello, gentle readers. I know Languishing's been quiet this year so far. Things at Casa Languishing have been especially difficult, and it's been hard to think of what to write on the blog that wasn't either a complete lie, or so depressing that my gentle readers would just weep at the heartache.

Well, okay, maybe it's not that bad. But Shaun lost his job almost three weeks ago, now, and it's become a major focus for us, of course. Procuring a new job is a lot of work: polishing a resume, scouring the classifieds, finding non-elastic waist pants...

We don't have any savings to speak of, so within a month, either Shaun needs to have found work, or we try to find a way to cut $1,000 a month from the household budget.

I know that we have more than so many people in the world, and I'm not going to whine about what we don't have here. But the unknown freaks me out. I make plans, and back-up plans, and I try to help Shaun however I can, and still do my own work, and we both take care of V, and...it becomes too much sometimes.

It's only been three weeks. He's had two job interviews (we're still waiting to hear on both), and there are other positions he can apply for. But every day that goes by without work makes the fear in my chest tighten just a bit more.

We try to talk to V about it in an appropriate way so she understands why we're both anxious, and why we cry sometimes, and so she knows none of this is her fault, and no matter what we'll take care of her. She's too smart for us to pretend nothing's wrong, anyway.

So we talk about it, and try to stay calm, and Shaun fills out applications and wears non-elastic waist pants to his interviews. I'll try to blog more often about other things. But if I can't or don't, please be patient. I'll be back soon.

Stories I Tell My Students I: Driving Stick

Languishing is bringing you a new series, inspired by colleges putting their courses online for free, from my college classroom to your computer/smartphone/iPad: "Stories I Tell My Students."  I have several personal stories that I bring out to teach certain points, and as I was leaving campus today, I thought, "Hey, I should blog those." They're not really my courses, per se, but I do tell these to my students at various times throughout my teaching. I hope you like them.



Years ago, just before I started grad school, my boyfriend and I needed a different car.  I found a used Mazda pick-up in Alexandria that looked promising, at a dealership, so one Saturday while he was working I drove over in our only car to do a little test-drive. I had a sizable deposit and I knew the Consumer Reports thoughts on this truck. I was kind of excited.

I walked into the dealership (a very large one, with probably 300 cars on their lots) with the newspaper in hand, and showed the ad to some guy in a dark green sports coat. "Sure," he said, "That's a nice little truck. I'll bring it up front for us." He grabbed keys and was back in less than 2 minutes. "It's got a flashy spare set of extra rims," he said.  "We could put those on for you, if you like."

He seemed to be assuming that I'd just take the truck NOW, and that bothered me just a bit. "I'd like to look under the hood first," I said. I'm not really a mechanic but I read somewhere once that checking for things that obviously look wrong under the hood is a good thing to do before buying a car.
"Well it's just the engine and stuff under there, honey," he said. He really said that. I don't know what he thought I thought was under there, but he clearly didn't think I would know what to do with an engine. I was starting to dislike this man.

"I know. Pop the hood, please," I said, sweetly. I looked around, checked for rust, signs of damage. I poked at the oil stick, ran my hand over something that wasn't too hot, and nodded.

"It's very clean," he said, and it was. Even my novice eyes noticed that. Not that he had any way to know I was a novice, except that I was obviously female.

"Can we take it out?" I asked. I didn't have much experience test driving cars at this time, and I didn't really want to spend any more time with this guy, but I really liked this little truck. It had a topper, and flashy rims.

He smiled and said, "Well, honey, it's a five-speed. Do you know how to drive a stick shift?" He said this slowly, with that smile on his face, as if he were talking to a six year old, or a dog. I was in my mid-twenties, college educated, and had never seen such obvious condescension before. He was lucky I did know how to drive a manual, or I would've probably slapped his face.

I assured him I had known for years how to drive stick, and as he buckled in next to me I could tell he was bracing for a terrible ride.

(I had only actually learned a year earlier, and only on one car, which anyone who drives a stick shift will tell you is not exactly knowing how to drive stick. Every clutch is a little different, every stick a little different, and anytime you go to drive a new stick, you should expect to kill it a few times as you get the feel of the thing. I knew all this as I started to back out, and he kept his hands on the dash. He was still smiling, but I don't think he really meant it.)

Somehow I made it out of that parking lot, onto the highway, and up to 55 mph, all the way into 5th gear, without so much as a soft jerk. The truck drove like a dream, and I was acutely aware that if I screwed up, this guy would feel vindicated, so I was extra careful. Plus the cab had an old-school bench seat and a really good stereo. I turned around after a mile or two, again shifting effortlessly. I swear it was smoother than an automatic, me driving that Mazda. He even eventually let go of the dash.

When we got back to the dealership, I parked and eased the parking brake up. As we stepped out of the truck, he said "Well, I'll be. I've been trying to teach my wife to drive stick for years and she just can't seem to get it." He was honestly incredulous, impressed by this woman driver. I knew I couldn't buy anything from him.

"Maybe," I said, "she just needs a better teacher." Then I tossed him the keys and walked away.

Dawn at Belle Taine

Sunsets on Lake Belle Taine are well documented (in each of those links, the sunset comes at the end). My brother-in-law, Steve, used to make fun of me for taking photos of the sunset, because it's been done approximately 18 million times since the in-laws have lived there. But I don't care. Every sunset is different, and some are breathtaking and I don't care if it's the same three trees in every photo.

 But at the lake this December, with the lovely late December sunrise and early-to-rise children, plus a dog who needs outside time right away every morning, I was able to wander out with my camera to the backyard, and caputure a lovely cold sunrise.

If nothing else, you get to see some different trees. 

Be gentle to us, 2012

Oh, new year, new post. Last year, I revisited my "37 things to do in the next 37 years" birthday list, so I think I'll do that again. Ive been sick for almost three weeks with a cold that will not die, so I'm too tired to think of a new topic. I realize this doesn't bode well for the new year, but I'm hoping I'll perk up by the time classes resume on January 9.

By the end of last year, I'd completed 2 of the 37 things: #10 & #32. This year, I've finished another 3, and made (somewhat questionable) progress on a few others.

9. Let go of all my old shame/guilt for stuff that doesn't matter to anyone but me. Done. Well, kind of, anyway. I imagine this will be a life-long thing, and perhaps it's just that my medication is working really well, but I've been reading the book Self Compassion by Kristen Neff, and it really is clicking with me. Every woman in my family should totally read this book.
15. Have a healthy, well-adjusted dog to take with for #11. (#11 is a Travels With Charley-esque trip). Done. I mean, we're not going on a trip any time soon, but we adopted Seven in June and he's pretty much a rock star. He adores V, tolerates our familial wackiness, and is just a kick-ass addition to our family. I'm not entirely sure he's "well-adjusted," but comparatively, he fits right in.
35. Bake a cake from scratch. Done. It didn't end up even pretty enough to put on the blog, but using recipes from an old issue of Real Simple, I made a fine vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. It's not really that much more work than a box mix, and it tasted divine.

The progressing ones are these:
8. Build a swing set/play house for V. Probably as done as it's gonna get. Okay, I just hung a swing from a tree in the front yard, but she really loves it, and so do the neighbor kids. That kind of success motivates other people, I hear.
12. Take a few sabbaticals. One down, four (?) to go. My first sabbatical was sort of transformative. I feel like I won't actually die from my job any more, and I'm looking forward to going back to class in a way that I haven't in a good ten years. Let's hope it carries me to my next sabbatical...
14. Publish a paper zine again. This is the first official statement, but there will be a paper Languishing in 2012. Stay tuned for more details, and start thinking about stuff you want to contribute. Please. Otherwise it's just me yammering on for twelve pages, and nobody wins when that happens.
26. Write a country music song. Started. This one is a total stretch, but I've got a few lines done, so I'm counting it. I don't want to jinx it, but just you wait. You'll all be impressed. Eventually.


Thank you, gentle readers, for your continued support of Languishing and me and mine. May we all have the healthiest, silliest, gentlest of years in 2012.

Gnometastic

When my sister moved into her little house, long before she met Brad, and long, long before either of us planned to become mothers, I told her that the little door under the stairs in her new little house was where the gnomes lived. She laughed politely, then went on with her life, painting over the little door.

Soon after, the gnomes started appearing.

 Most of them live outside, in the garden. A few live in the mini-van. For awhile, they sent her letters, imploring her to find them girl gnomes they could date/court/play cards with.

 I've given her books on how to survive gnome uprisings, histories of gnomes, and so on and so forth. Mostly, I think, she rolls her eyes at me and hopes I'll give up soon, stop defending the gnomes.



I just want her to coexist peacefully with her gnomes. I'd hate for them to start getting mischievious again, showing up in unusual places, rummaging around in places they don't belong...

I'm just saying. Gnomes are serious business.

Adventures in Gift Making

The 6 year old girl child asked only for Rapunzel-based gifts this year. She received many other things, but she really, really wanted a dress like Rapunzel's. "It doesn't even have to be exact, Mama, so long as it's purple." For you non-Tangled viewers, here's Disney's Rapunzel, in costume:

Such a dress can be purchased, of course, but without special ordering, most stop at size 6x. My 6 year old girl child is in the 90+percentile for both height and weight in her age category, so she has long since outgrown such a thing. Besides, store bought Disney dresses are always made from cheap, crappy satin that runs/deteriorates faster than the child learns to fasten the velcro. So I went to the fabric store and bought 2 yards of lavender knit. "Use a pattern, Jenny!" my mother implored. But why would I listen to her?

 Lace from my immense fabric stash, sewn on the hem of the dress. (I actually attached the lace, then flipped it and topstitched it to make the hem. Because sometimes in sewing, lazy=professional looking).

My sewing machine would like to recieve full credit for this project.

 For the bodice, I chose a dark purple velour from my stash. I would've made the whole dress out of this if I'd had enough. Rapunzel's sleeves have contrasting ribbon sewn on, so I sewed on contrasting ribbon.

 Above, hemming the sleeve (with a gap to insert elastic, which will help the sleeve be appropriately poufy).

 Rapunzel's corset caused me a bit of a headache. 6 year olds don't really need sweetheart necklines, and I'm not crazy about a lacing that can get caught on stuff while she plays/swings/runs around like a crazy princess. My research led to lots of good places (that one there has photos of how the store-bought dresses wear out, along with a thorough how-to) and one of them (I can't find it, but this shows the same concept) showed the ribbons as just stitched down. I went with that. No grommets (which are fun, of course), no fuss. Well, some fuss. I made the top based on a Simplicity top I've made her a half dozen times. Then I sewed on the skirt, made from a rectangle sewn into a loop, pinning a lot.

 I should take one of it on a hanger, but here she is, all dressed up (with a scarf for Rapunzel's hair) in a dress 3 sizes too big. I'll take it in a few inches at the waist, shortening the skirt and the top, as soon as she lets me take it to the basement for a few minutes.

She's wearing it to Grandma's tonight. It was worth staying up past my bedtime for my dear little Rapunzel. Now I need to make a Flynn Rider and Mother Goethel costume for Shaun and me. Yee-haw.

Holiday Lights

Once you give up trying to control photographing holiday lights, it becomes a lot more fun and Spirograph-like. The first photo is from some house on 8th Street; the last is street, tail, & stop lights on our way home. The three in the middle come from an annual display in Lindenwood park. We're not sure why Santa is riding on a brontosaurus, but we don't dislike it.

Holiday philosophizing

After a lovely trip to look at the holiday lights and enjoy some Mexican Village food as a family, V and I found ourselves alone in the TV room with a little "Kung Fu Panda." She had some questions.

V: How did the world begin?
Me: Um, well, some scientist believe in "The Big Bang Theory..."
V: What do humans believe?
Me: Uh, scientists ARE humans.
V: Oh.
Me: ...and some people believe that a God created the whole universe and...
V: Yep, that's what I think. I think he made the whole world.
Me: You think there's a god, and that he's male?
V: Yep.
Me: Oh, crap.

Apparently I've not been doing my job as well as I'd hoped. Sigh. Parenting is harder than it looks.

Edited to add: The point of this post is that despite the fact that we are raising V outside of the church, she soaks it up somewhere anyway. I was raised Lutheran, and Shaun was raised Catholic, and as an anthropologist I am respectful of a wide swath of beliefs. I just hadn't expected my own child to adopt such a mainstream point of view without me teaching it to her. I didn't really say "oh crap" out loud to V, but instead told her she could believe what she liked, and everyone had a right to decide for themselves what they believed. But it's hard when your child believes something you don't. That's all I'm saying.

Fancy but blurry

We have a bit of a backlit problem in the TV room, hence these photos have all kinds of problems. But V wants to tell you about them.

 "Okay, we took pictures and did videos. The videos aren't put up yet, but they soon will be. So, as I was saying, the pictures are exciting because they are me dressed up as Rapunzel. So look at them, please.  That's it."

"P.S. Some of them are funny, because they're blurry. And I'm funny. hahahahahaha!"

Rapunzel, Rapunzel...

V's been growing out her bangs for a bit, now, and usually she gets a side ponytail to keep them out of her eyes. Or sometimes, we just leave it down. But lately the tangles, oh, lord...serious squirrel-nest-like knots across the back of her poor, tender scalp.

So today we went in to Lil Whipper Snippers, where a very patient woman named Monica combed and brushed and detangled, and then cut off a good 4 inches. And then she did a lovely braid, which she called a waterfall braid.

My little post-haircut Rapunzel, weilding a brush like a weapon, because it kind of is. I hope we get a little squirrel-nest-free time out of this.

Now I need to go google "waterfall braid" so I can figure out how to do that.