X

I loved X the Owl as a kid, but not as much as Henrietta Pussycat. I think that's normal. (I mean, I loved Henrietta Pussycat more than I loved X the Owl, not that Henrietta Pussycat loved X the Owl more than I did. Though that's certainly possible. I always assumed X the Owl was gay, though. Poor Henrietta. Meow meow boys meow).

When we play alphabet games, V and I often resort to saying x-ray fish. They are lovely little tetra fish you can see through, sort of, but I actually like fish x-rays much more. Check out these from the Smithsonian (ah! undulating eel!).

Now, if I don't have a lengthy-ish story to tell, I like to have at least three things that start with the letter of the day, as I'm sure you've all noticed. So I had to look some up, since I didn't want to use xylophone. But how exciting! You and I both get to learn new words!

• Xylomancy is divination by examining the wood found in one's path. Marvelous! I must learn this and practice it constantly!
• And I'm embarrassed that I didn't know that a xiphopagus is a set of conjoined twins joined by a band of flesh on the torso (like Chang and Eng!) 
• Shaun would likely suggest that around this time of the semester, I am often a xanthippe, an ill-tempered woman. Really, that's a possibility year-round. 
• I hope I never, in any capacity in this life or the next, encounter a surgeon's instrument for scraping bones, called a  xyster. I guess I'd rather hear my surgeon ask the nurse for a xyster than a bone scraper, though, when it comes right down to it. 

I can tell by the sticks in your path that you're unlikely to be either a xanthippe or part of a xiphopagus. Congratulations! And if you do tangle with a xyster, may it be very sharp and held by steady hands. 

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.

Me and my Lazy Eye

In "Go Carolina," David Sedaris, upon hearing from his speech therapist that his lisp was due to his lazy tongue, describes his reaction.

"My sisters Amy and Gretchen were, at the time, undergoing therapy for their lazy eyes, while my older sister, Lisa, had been born with a lazy leg that had refused to grow at the same rate as its twin. She'd worn a corrective brace for the first two years of her life, and wherever she roamed she left a trail of scratch marks in the soft pine floor. I liked the idea that a part of one's body might be thought of as lazy — not thoughtless or hostile, just unwilling to extend itself for the betterment of the team." (Me Talk Pretty One Day).

In April, then, when I noticed in the mirror that my right eye was a little wonky, I figured it just wasn't playing nicely with the other eye. And then I thought maybe it was because of Peter Falk, known for, among other things, his lack of focused eyes. Since he died this year, I figured the universe needed to balance the number of lazy eyes in the world, so I was selected. (This is how I think, people. If you don't know that by now, you haven't been paying attention). At first I was honored, but then I remembered that Peter Falk's eye wasn't just lazy: it was dead (surgically removed because of childhood cancer). So...um, I don't want a dead eye.

Once I saw it in the mirror (and I looked a lot, because it's really distressing and hard to actually see in a mirror), I noticed I was having difficulty focusing, especially when wearing my glasses, and especially when I was tired. Then I noticed that while driving and wearing my glasses, I had trouble with depth perception (which makes sense, if you think about it: if one eye's looking up Broadway and one is looking across, it's hard to judge how far it is to the crosswalk). I started wearing my contacts more regularly. I thought about getting an eye patch. It made me giggle.

(I look more upset than I really am in this photo: I'm just being silly. It's not a remotely flattering picture, but I don't want you to think I'm just blithering on about nothing. See? I look like Peter Falk. Oh, and it's not usually this bad. Just when I'm tired and not wearing my contacts.)

I went to the optometrist in July, for my yearly check up. I told her I was worried about this wonky eye business, and as she examined me, she kept saying "Huh." Not like "Excuse me, what did you say?" but more like "Huh; that's weird." Now there are many things you don't want professionals to say while they're looking your direction. For example, you hope your dentist doesn't say "Oops" during a root canal; you'd prefer your ob/gyn doesn't say "Sweet holy Moses!" at any point at all....and you don't want your optometrist to say "Huh...." over and over.  It turns out that it's really not normal to develop a lazy eye as an adult. It's almost always a childhood affliction, and important to correct right away as the brain is developing. My old brain is fully developed, though, which is why my focus and depth perception get messed up so easily. And why it surprised Dr. Optomitrist.

Anyhoo, Dr. O sent me to an opthalmologist; Dr. Opthalmologist seemed to think my laziness was unimpressive (which, frankly, was a bit disappointing), and I likely just need to do some exercises of some sort, or perhaps some motivational activities to get the right eye back on board as a team player. To learn those, though, I have to go to an eye muscle specialist (whose fancy title I don't recall). The eye muscle specialist is in high demand, and also not local, apparently, because he's only here one day a month. Which means I can't see him until late November. By then, my right eye could have just migrated right out of my head, for all I know. But I guess we'll wait and see (ha! Vision humor!). I'll keep you posted, even if you don't want me to. Peter Falk would want it this way.

Something fishy (not suitable for mealtimes. Or anytime, really)

Minnesota, with more coastline than Florida & Hawaii combined, is full of wholesome outdoorsy goodness. We enjoy the weather with outdoor meals, splashing in the clear waters, and fishing for sport and food.

 And sometimes Mother Nature sends a little reminder of how things really are. Right into our idyllic vacation.

 All three of the kids were fascinated, and Jess and I tried hard to hide our complete disgust. Royal nastiness, this.

We still took the time to photograph it, though, so I could share it with all of you. Aren't you glad I'm always thinking of the blog?

Self portrait in silhouette

An afternoon walk at Lake Minnie Bell. Photos of me don't end up on the blog very often, so I thought I'd take a self-portrait.

Wait, though. I look like a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's. Maybe I should move my arms to illustrate that they're arms, and not some awkward square-top-of-my-body-things.

Okay, nevermind.

Look and learn, grasshopper.

To prove that Languishing's not just a pretty face, I've applied the same concepts that are discussed in this post, about flowers, to this cool grashopper I found on the side of a laundry mat. Don't you love it when ideas are transferrable?

 Okay, so he's slightly above my head, but I got as close to him as I could. Look at the variety of textures on his legs and wings. And the brick of the building? Fantastic backdrop. Thank you, Herr Grasshopper.

To follow my own advice, I tried different angles. The grasshopper is still above my head (I don't really like to touch grasshoppers. Perhaps it's from when I was little and we'd drive out to the farm and grasshoppers would leap on, over, and into our car from all angles. Perhaps it's because I once got a grasshopper in my mouth while riding on the open-cab tractor. Perhaps it's from the recurring nightmares), so I just stretched out my arms and shot him from above. I do this same thing when I shoot from underneath flowers, often: I'm lazy, so I just point the camera from below, take a bunch of shots, and hope it works out. And this top-down shot was the best of Herr Grasshopper from that angle.

 I pulled back a little, because I liked the perspective of the whole wall stretching out to the door of the laundry mat, broken only by this rogue grasshopper. If this were a soap opera, I'd focus in on the laundry mat door to show a disheveled couple leaving the building, trying to look nonchalant, and then I'd zoom back to the grasshopper. Dramatic! Confusing! That's how we roll.

And finally, the from-below shot. I love his red legs. Plus, I know this is why you come to my blog, people: to see fine examples of grasshopper butts.

You're welcome.

My Little Dinner Party

I teach Judy Chicago’s art installation The DinnerParty in my Women in the Humanities course, and it never fails to make an impact on the students. So I thought it only fitting to create my own Dinner Party guest list.

1.      Sylvia Plath: you sweet, broken genius. Come over and have tea. I’ll keep you away from the oven if you stay away from my daddy issues.

2.      Elizabeth Cady Stanton: How fantastic to have one of the mothers of feminism at our table! Please, Elizabeth, stay awhile and help us fix this unholy mess of a country.

3.      Marilyn Monroe: I believe she was way smarter than any of us gave her credit for, and broken like the rest of us.

4.      Susan B. Anthony: a little redundant, what with E. C. Stanton, but I bet she’d be fun at parties.

5.      Liz Phair: given the guest list, I think she’d be a kick-ass addition. Plus, she’s also the only one besides me who’s still alive.

6.      7, 8, and 9. My great-grandmothers, Beatta, Myra, Elizabeth, and Emilie. I never met any of them, and I think it would be cool to hang out with all 4. I know Beatta died of cancer, Myra is whom my mother is named after, Elizabeth had long, thick, white hair, and Emilie had five children including identical twins, one of which she named Emil. I don’t know if they like talking politics, or music, or Kennedys, but we’ll figure out something.

We would eat expensive cheese, drink cheap wine, and have lefse. Who would you invite to your party?

Quirky is as quirky does

I am Dewey Johnson's daughter: collections of weird, old crap make me feel like I'm home. But when it's not my old weird crap, and it's right next to my house, I start to like it a little bit less.

 Collection of old paint cans three inches from my driveway. Early Summer 2011-present. (Now buried under three truck loads of lumber).

My neighbor is essentially who I would've grown up to be if not for Shaun: she's single, has no children, and struggles with health issues. She also loves dogs and swears like a sailor. I kind of like her, and she's always kind to V in the way that people who are sickly and swear like sailors try to be nice to kids. Aside from her penchant for letting homeless people live in my driveway, I have no problem with her. She's sort of hardscrabble, and I like that. But she collects. Well, no. She hoards.

The lawnmower collection. June 15 2011- present.
Five push mowers and one riding mower. In a standard city lot (40' x 120' or so). No professional mowing business involved. The rhubarb, above, is growing right on our property line, through our fence (thank god for fences).

So, I don't really care about any of that stuff. I mean, it's kind of unsightly, but if I wanted a scenic vista I certainly shouldn't've bought a house in North Moorhead. And V's not the kind of kid who goes wandering into other people's yards, so I'm not worried about her safety, exactly. Though those paint cans must be some sort of environmental hazard...our other neighbors (everyone else on our street, as far as I can tell) HATE it. They hate her stuff, and many of them strongly dislike our neighbor, or worse. Believe it or not, the city came a couple of autumns ago and took everything away (yes. these two collections are all less than two years old), and I don't know about your city, but ours doesn't really show up unless they get numerous complaints. But none of those complaints came from us. Afterwards, everyone on our block got a letter of reprimand from the city, telling us to play nice and not call each other names or tell our children malicious things which they may repeat (seriously. It's an awesome letter). It made me very sad, and not because we had been playing nice all along. It's just sad to me when grown ups are mean to each other.

And truly, my neighbor's collection is nothing compared to what my family compiled, before and after I was born. We owned over half a city block, and my dad and uncle would scoff at only six different lawnmowers. Somewhere in heaven, Dewey's laughing. "I had six mowers by the time I was V's age!"

Still, I feel like I'm not a very good American somehow if this doesn't piss me off more. What's your take, gentle readers? Would you be more annoyed than I am? Is it just my crap-filled upbringing that makes me tolerate this crazy hoarding issue? For the record, Shaun doesn't care at all about her stuff: as long as it doesn't affect him, she can do what she wants. Perhaps we're just the libertarian family on a block full of angry republicans.

I do know that if there's a zombie apocalypse, my neighbor's house is going to have most of what we might need to survive. Perhaps that should be my main comfort.

My kind of sculpture

The shelter where we went to adopt Seven is a working ranch, with all kinds of fauna. And as we drove in, it was pretty clear that if my crazy neighbor Kathy and I lived on a farm together, this would be the kind of place we'd have.

 Most notable, aside from the turkeys, llamas, dogs, peacocks, ducks, geese, and cats, were the mannequin heads.

 Atop the fence posts, with silk flower accoutrement.

And the occasional farmyard diorama.

 One of the members of the board has a beauty school, and donates heads each season. I'm so jealous. And I love how they look after enduring the Northern Minnesota winters.

 I love a girl with an Ankh earring....

Or a fella with a head full of blooms.
I was so grateful they let me take photos, because they are really hard to describe effectively. Now, who knows where I can get myself some mannequin heads?

Well, we DID turn 38 this year....

so maybe that's why my friend Dan's car now just says "Old."

Languishing's first ever video post.

Let's hope we don't break the internet.

Never Eat Shredded Wheat

I love mnemonic devices. Love. When Shaun and I were first dating, I bought my first vintage Samsonite suitcase (which is a whole nother series of posts. Lord), and it had the initials EP on it. We spent a good 45 minutes imagining what they may have stood for, and it's one of my fondest memories of our early courtship (The two I remember most are Elvis Presley and Edible Panties).

The other day, V was asking what direction we were driving, so I explained north, south, east, and west to her. And then I shared how I remember them: Never Eat Shredded Wheat. Now, V and I both enjoy the occassional shredded wheat, so she was not comfortable with this sentence. Today, she put the letters N  E  S  W up on our fridge and worked on new sentences.

No Easter? Soon winter.
Never eat soft wombats.
No, Edith. Say what?
Never eat singing worms.

She read each dramatically, especially the one about Edith, and we laughed and laughed and laughed.

I can hardly wait until we get to Every Good Boy Does Fine. What are your favorite mnemonic devices? And have you seen this helpful online tool?

Edited for spelling. Thanks, Cousin!

Dolly

Trying to avoid grading, I went in the backyard to take some pictures. I hope you like them.

Clothes sewing, Day 2

Skirt from vintage bicycle print. Check. Skirt from sweet birdie print. Made too short. Added 4" flounce to make it decent. Check.

Photographed three of the four finished items on the clothesline. (V refused to take off the bicycle skirt once she had it on). Check.

V noticed the grass was extra long, and decided to make a quick grass angel.

Check.

Shoes for my friend Georgia

My sister Jess and I often exchange e-mails several times in a day: when we're puttering around the internets, we sometimes run across stuff we want to share with each other. She sends me links to shiny things or gift ideas for our mom for mother's day; I mostly send her links to weird stuff. And shoes. So, so many shoes. I love shoes. I am the cheapest woman on earth except when it comes to shoes. I looooove shoes. Lately, I especially love these shoes:
Lookit them! Look. At. Them. Aren't they pretty? And you can go here and see them from various angles. Check out that heel and the sole! I'm pretty sure that's faux bois! Who wouldn't love to walk on fake wood?? Well, I would, anyway. (Get it? I wood. Bwah ha ha). Red is my favorite color, and they look comfy, and they're on sale for 60% off. WHAT IS NOT TO LOVE?

So I sent the link to my little sister, and you know what she said? Do you know what she said about my New Favorite Shoes in the Whole Wide World?

She said they "seem too girly-part looking to me. ew."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I send my sister a link to the best shoes on the planet, and she tells me they look like lady bits.

Now what am I supposed to do? Do I walk away from my New Favorite Shoes in the Whole Wide World? Do I pretend her e-mail response got lost among the tangly world wide web? Do I order the shoes and wear them around just my sister, singing "Vagina shoes! Vagina shoes!" in a high-pitched freaky voice?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

Mystery

On a walk in Columbia Heights today, we stumbled across some carnage.

So very much carnage. What happened here? Did a clown get run over? Did someone have a very unhappy surprise party? Or have an urgent need to speak like a chipmunk? Or have balloon angst beyond, you know, the usual balloon angst?Who would do such a thing, and leave such a heap of evidence in broad daylight? I looked and looked, but found no answers. But it explains these survivors we saw bouncing down the street.

I hope they made it to some sort of balloon safehouse. And I hope the perpetrator gets the help they so obviously need. Before another clown gets it.

Why Squirrels Are Not Our Friends

Truly devoted readers will recognize the following rant from the second issue of Languishing (the old school version, in paper form) EVER PRINTED, ca. 1995. The photos are new, from a recent weekend at the in-laws.

Many of you, dear readers, spend time on college campuses, where for some reason squirrels tend to be more plentiful than in other places. This article is vital for you: for you and your loved ones' safety, read on.

Squirrels are wild animals. They pretend they're not, but they are. People even build them little chairs which they nail to trees and set corn cobs on. As if giving them their own furniture will keep them from chewing out the baby's eyes if you give them a chance.

Squirrels have eyes on the sides of their heads, and they will sit and watch college students on both sides of them all day long. They are actually really really bitter that students are always walking on their lawn and sidewalks. It's only a matter of time before they snap and invade our dorms and classrooms. I will not be responsible for the ensuing carnage. You have all been warned.Squirrels have big sharp teeth and jaws built to gnaw. Just think of how many squirrels have come dangerously close to your ankles. Need I say more? Well, I will.

Squirrels are rodents. Rodents will eat their young. And that is just not right.

Now, I'm not saying we should annihilate squirrels. I'm just saying we need to be more careful. Don't feed squirrels. They just want to gain your trust: it's just a matter of time before they move from their chair on the tree to your LaZBoy. Protect yourself. Wear thick socks all the time. Walk fast, or better, run or skip.

And never, ever, fall asleep outside. It's just not safe, I tell you.

From the mouths of babes

Yesterday, I heard V's voice from the kitchen, where some of the leftovers from Thanksgiving had been sitting for about 28 hours:
"Mama, what's in that pot on the stove?"
"It's cold gravy, honey. Why?"
"Because it doesn't taste like chocolate."

Today, from the dining room, in a melodramatic, swoony voice: "Mom, I think I'm falling in love with cream cheese."

So much hilarity in one little person.

Lunar planning

Just for the record, I think all colleges should be closed the day before and after a full moon.

Because my job was totally, batshit crazy on Thursday, and I can't take much more of this.

Some posts just can't be titled effectively.

I have a link to share with you. But first, I have to tell you a story. Don't worry; unlike most of my stories, it doesn't have a horrible ending or wind up with me begging you for something.

It was 1994. I'd turned 21 a month or so earlier, and my sometimes-sweetheart was a college student in Moorhead. So we went to Ralph's Corner Bar, a Moorhead institution, where grizzled locals and college students alike shared cheap beer and greasy burgers. I liked the bar: it was old, and grungy, and my mom had maybe gone to it when she was in college. Live music played in the back room, and years later I'd see bands with names like Diesel Jenny play there.

This was only my second time in a real bar (my first was in Morris, where I turned 21), and it was different than just a college bar. It was older, and dirtier, and felt more grown up. Plus they had black leather booths, cracked with age and smoke, that made me think of movies like The Untouchables. It was the kind of place that, when you walked in, a good dozen people turned to see who you were. Like the gas station in my hometown, but with the smell of stale beer.

After our first pitcher, I excused myself to the ladies' room. It was one of those single-room ones, with a thin wood veneer door and push button lock. As I dropped my Levis and turned to sit, I saw a sign on the back of the bathroom door. It was one of those black and orange signs you can buy at K-Mart that say "Garage Sale" or "Beware of Dog," but this one was blank in the middle, and someone had scrawled in black Sharpie:

Remember:

No Drugs

in Your 'Gina.

I am a simple, inexperienced woman in many ways. I grew up in a town of 300 people, and I swear no one I knew had ever even THOUGHT of what this sign was reminding me not to do.

We left after that one beer, and though I went back in later years, I never saw the sign again. This was long before digital cameras, but man, I wish I had a photo of that sign. Who put it up? Was it a joke? Did someone really need to be reminded? As if someone might forget and oopsie! There's drugs in my 'gina again.

Anyway, I told you all this to show you this, an article about the new business in that old space. I'm not a believer in this kind of thing, honest. But if any place in the world might need cleansing, I can vouch that it's that bathroom.