To the jenth power ...

Three Cheers For Beer!

2007-09-07T10:41:00.000-04:00

I love the smell of barley and hops in the morning. Don't you?

Since the centerpiece of my plans for Thursday was a trip to the Schell Brewery, and said brewery was near my hotel, I stopped there first in order to see what was what. I checked in at the brewery museum, where I learned that tours would be conducted at 2:30 and 4:00 pm. So I bought my ticket in advance, and spent the morning taking a self-(and pamphlet-) guided walking tour of New Ulm.

Before I knew it, it was T-minus one hour until tour time! I got there early, parked my car and wandered around the grounds of the Schell mansion. I took in the impressive gardens and wondered who, exactly, maintained them - they were pretty extensive and very carefully arranged. As I got near the mansion itself, I spied a little sign on the front door. Of course, my curiosity got the best of me and marched up the stone steps only to find out that the sign read: 'This is a private residence. Please respect our privacy. Thank you.'

Yikes!

So I skulked* back down the steps, feeling like an ass. I could picture the inhabitants watching me from behind the curtains, giving me the stink-eye, and wishing me ill. I can't tell you if this was the case or not, though, because I already felt intrusive enough that I didn't dare sneak a glance back.

(*It may seem to the reader that I've done an inordinate amount of skulking in New Ulm. Skulking down the Hermann Monument, skulking around the Schell Mansion, et cetera. Indeed, it might be more skulking than the average person manages in a year. But me? I frequently get myself into situations that involve either a speedy getaway or skulking. Or both. So, you see, I'm a very seasoned and efficient skulker.)

I did hear a startling yelp, however, but I soon realized that it was a peacock and not, as I'd feared, a pissed-off mansion dweller. My curiosity piqued, I wandered around until I found the owner of those dulcet tones (Yes. That is sarcasm, in case you haven't ever heard a peacock). Indeed, there were a few peacocks wandering around. There was also a pretty nifty Victorian aviary alongside the mansion; you can see it in the photo (it's that little round tower).

Since I still had a little time to kill, I wandered back to my car to have the little snack that I'd brought along. As I sat on the open tailgate of the car munching on Cheez-its, one of the peacocks wandered over to see what I was up to. I held out a cracker, and he took it! And another! And another! Pretty cool.

Not so cool, however, was the faithful friendship that had blossomed - my feathered friend followed me back up the path to the brewery museum. He was only thwarted when a glimpse of himself reflected in the hubcap of a parked car distracted him. So .... you guessed it, I skulked once again, speedily this time. And I thanked my lucky stars that peacocks, apparently, are narcissists.

The tour was great. Most importantly, though, I learned that nobody was currently in residence in the mansion. Whew! All that shame for nothing.

It goes without saying, I think, that the highlight of the tour was the beer tasting. It was pretty good beer, and especially nice to have on a hot afternoon. I tried a number of varieties, especially the Fire Brick. I thought to myself: Self, you have got to get some of this back home. And, eventually, I did - but that's a story for another day.

Since I'd seen everything I'd wanted to see in New Ulm, I wrapped up the beer tasting and got on Route 14 west, on the way to Walnut Grove. It took a little longer than I'd planned because, well ... there's a saying that you borrow beer? Folks, I'm here to tell you that this is true, even for small amounts of the stuff.

Next stop: The Ingalls Odyssey Begins!

As I Live And Breathe ...

2007-09-06T11:21:00.000-04:00

... because, contrary to all evidence, I do! Good God, I've been MIA for a while.

I'd like to say that I can blame my disappearance on work. Or the pressing concerns of my thrill-a-minute daily life. Or even hard-core athletic training. My all-encompassing preparations for an upcoming Space Shuttle launch. The white-knuckle adventures of my skydiving outing. Something. But ... no. I'm far too pedestrian for any of that. I simply felt overwhelmed. And a little blue.

The irony of it all is that I've got about five drafts ready to go. They've been gathering dust since mid-July. I suppose I ought to thank my lucky stars that I'm not a child-birthing sort of person. I just know I'd gestate for something like 11 months because I'd be so indecisive about how, exactly, labor should proceed. Then I'd be ashamed it was taking me so long, so I'd dither for another few weeks.

In other words, I suck. And I'm the Queen of fits-and-starts. But we all knew that.

Oh Hells! Bells ...

2007-07-25T12:23:00.000-04:00

This, people, was my Waterloo. Observe the nifty wrought iron staircase. Note that it rapidly climbs to quite a height.

This staircase challenged me, and I had to cry "uncle", I'm sorry to say.

On the first day of my trip, I got my rental car and drove a few hours to my reserved room in New Ulm, Minnesota. After checking in and getting a quick shower, I set out to see the sights. One of these attractions is the Hermann Monument, a memorial to the large German population of New Ulm and to their many contributions. It's pretty nicely situated atop a hill, overlooking the town, and surrounded by a really beatiful park that's studded with picnic pavilions.

Since I was feeling full of bravado (and traces of the adrenaline I'd mustered to board two planes that morning), I decided that I'd cough up the admission fee and climb to the top. Paralyzing fear of heights? Pfft! I was an adventurer. A bold player on the prairie stage! I wouldn't let a little thing like open, wrought-iron steps hold me back. Not me. Nosiree!

And with this attitude, I got pretty far. About three-quarters of the way up, in fact.

Then? The inevitable happened. The triple whammy of plunging stomach, jelly knees, and wavery tunnel vision laid me low. Or, well, high. I paused, afraid to go any farther and terrified to go back down. What to do, what to do. I had visions of a frantic rescue by the New Ulm fire company - I could picture them rolling up with a ladder truck, in full gear, and having to pluck me from those stairs like a kitten from a tree. Oh! The shame!

Fortunately, nobody else had ventured up the monument, and I was there by myself. In fact, the only people around were a large picnicking group in a pavilion to one side of the tower. So I did what any poised, dignified adult would do: I ass-crawled down a few steps. Some small molecule of shame made me turn around and walk (sort of) as the stairs curved me into the line of vision of the picnic people, but the instant I was no longer visible to them I was right back on my hindquarters. Then up again, looking somewhat pulled together. Then down. Using this method, I got myself back on the ground.

Yes. I know. I'm a woman of courage and class.

I wandered back into the town proper. It was rather late in the afternoon, and I hoped to get a chance to catch the glockenspiel in action. I checked it out, and I was just on time for the 5:00 demo. I sat down on a bench, and waited for it to do its thing. Which it soon did.

Bells began to ring, and a door on the side of it opened up to reveal figurines. They slowly rotated as the bells chimed away. A Native American. Pioneers. A beer guy lifting a wooden barrel. They rotated. And chimed. And rotated some some. I rushed to take pictures, but I shouldn't have knocked myself out, because that glock spieled for a good fifteen minutes. I sat back down for the last few minutes, and, suddenly, I noticed that the random melodious chiming had turned into "The Happy Wanderer". I found it oddly touching, but that may just have been sheer exhastion rearing its ugly head at that point.

And I was tired, completely wiped out. I'd been going since 4:00 am. So I grabbed a quick dinner and retreated to my hotel room. I called a few friends and family to let them know all was well, spent a little time on my journal, and hit the sack. The remaining Teutonic charms of New Ulm would just have to wait until the next day.

Prairie Pictures

2007-07-21T13:17:00.003-04:00

New Ulm, MN slideshow

Walnut Grove, MN slideshow

De Smet, SD slideshow

Well, it's a start. I've got many, many more photos, but these really are the highlights. The titles on the pictures are pretty self-explanatory. There are a number of items from my visit to New Ulm, a really fun detour that had absolutely nothing to do with Little House on the Prairie. But there was a brewery! And a glockenspiel!

Stay tuned. Check back. I'll be reposting many of these photos with thrilling, white-knuckle explanations. You'll laugh. You'll cry. It'll be better than Cats!

Or, well, you know ... at the very least, it will be a good time-killer for a long afternoon at work. There's always that.

Weather, Channeled.

2007-07-17T02:38:00.000-04:00

Again, I've stalked and captured a computer complete with internet connection. Really, I impress myself with my innate cunning and my deft lasso skills. Kidding. Actually, I had to wait a few hours for the computer at the hotel to free up, and this process involved much muttering and gnashing of teeth. At any rate, here I am.

There's a rainstorm rolling through right now, but no lightning or thunder. We were under a tornado warning this afternoon, a fact that's likely a common occurrence to prairie folk but was rather unnerving to me. As I headed eastward on Route 14, I kept imagining a tornado coming out of nowhere and sweeping both me and my rental PT Cruiser away. So I'd spend one moment wondering if I'd look like Miss Gulch as the storm whisked me aloft, and the next wondering how I'd explain tornado damage to the high-strung fella at the rental car company. Perhaps I could combine the two and use my best Miss Gulch face to subdue him. I may still try that, funnel cloud or no funnel cloud.

I saw the coolest thing on Friday night. I'd expected the Walnut Grove pageant to be the highlight of the evening, and it very nearly was; however, as I drove back to my hotel afterwards, I saw lightning in the distance. Now, it hadn't occurred to me that lightning on the prairie would be any different that Northeastern Pennsylvania lightning, but, really, it is. The stuff I saw was so far away that I could see its path both upwards and down to the ground. When it struck, a patch of the sky became luminous with shades of yellow and grey. Except for random Dead show backdrops in my crazier days, I'd never seen anything like it. It was absolutely hypnotic. Add the fact that it was too far away for me to hear the thunder, and it was outright surreal.

Coming out here, I was all set to immerse myself into the Little House stuff. I even expected a certain amount of emotion at seeing so many of the places and details from the books. What I really hadn't expected, however, were the little things about this part of the world that have made me understand Laura's love of the prairie. I hadn't known, hadn't appreciated, how spot-on so many of her descriptions are, even one hundred and twenty years later. The lightning was the most striking (har!) example, but I also noticed it in the way the sun shines on the waving grasses and in the feel and sound of the wind. I didn't expect it, and there's no way I could have prepared for it, really. It was a delightful surprise.

So Speaketh The Leaf Thief

2007-07-15T23:54:00.000-04:00

I managed to wrangle a computer, so I thought I'd give a quick update.

Right now, I'm in De Smet. It's been amazing. I toured the Ingalls home, the Surveyors' House, the school and I visited both the Ingalls and the Wilder homestead sites. I just got back to the hotel from the De Smet pageant. It's all been incredible, but the most moving part of the trip, for me, has been the chance to see the cottonwood trees that were planted by the Ingalls family. I stopped by early this morning, and while I was there, I took a few leaves. I couldn't help myself - I was kind of blown away that these trees were the very ones mentioned in the books. Yep. You got that right ... I've sunk to the level of leaf thief. Foliage felon.

And worse? I returned to the scene of the crime ... I just had to see the trees and the surrounding prairie at sunset. I did refrain from stealing more leaves this time, though.

My time in Walnut Grove was also incredible. I think the best part was my visit to the dugout site. Because of the hour time difference and its interesting effects on my circadian rhythms, I was up early enough to be able to visit the site when nobody else was around. It was awfully nice to be able to check it out in solitude, to have time to poke around at my leisure. It was the first time I'd really gotten a chance to walk around on the actual prairie.

I've managed to write something like fifty pages of notes, information, and impressions. Never fear, though - I won't bore you with every little tidbit here in the next few weeks. Okay, I lie. I'll probably bore you a tiny bit, but I'll try not to. And hey - there's pictures to accompany my ramblings. Better yet, I was unafraid to make a total ass of myself, so I made small movies with my digital camera. I even narrated some, which drew interesting looks from passerby. Heh.

Twenty-four Hours To Go ... I Wanna Be Sedated

2007-07-10T09:21:00.000-04:00

At this time tomorrow, I'll be in the air between Detroit and Minneapolis.

I've been thinking like this for the past few days. A week from now, I'll be doing this. Three days from today, I'll be doing that. Of course, I picture myself full of poise and grace in all circumstances, but I'm sure it won't be entirely the case; when my plane is preparing to land at this time tomorrow, I'll probably be gut-rollingly nervous. There may even be a touch of the Philadelphia effect going on. I'll be worried that I'll get lost in the airport, worried that there's a mistake and there'll be no rental cars left for me, worried that I'll have problems driving out of Minneapolis. Because, you know, I think I might cease to exist if I didn't have something to worry about.

Here's the thing, though: most people travel. Some of them do it all the time! I don't, really. It's not that I don't want to, I just ... don't. Because of money. Because of time. Work. Distance. I keep telling myself, "Someday, I'll go here. I'll check out that." But the day never seems to come because I don't really believe that I can do it. That, my friends, is the most important part of this trip, methinks. But it's also the scariest part - what if that little part of my brain that doubts is, well, spot-on? I guess we'll see, right? Right.

I'm packed. I did, indeed, manage to get my stuff into a tiny little bag that's unquestionably small enough to be a carry-on.

After a bad set of circumstances, I'd been really, really concerned about money. Between sudden, costly car repairs in early June and the vet bills and subsequent deaths of two pets (and cremation ain't cheap, folks!), I am completely serious when I say that I was concerned that I might spend a night or two camping out in my rental car. But then a funny thing happened. I'd switched auto insurance, and the company I'd left immediately reimbursed me the remainder of the term I'd paid. Then I got a long-forgotten rebate check in the mail. When I called about a tiny dividend check I hadn't recieved, I found that the unreceived checks - individually less than $50 - had piled up over the last few quarters, and I was mailed the sum of $147.20. All told, something like six hundred dollars showed up unexpectedly.

Sure, $600. is small potatoes. But I'm not wealthy, so it made a huge difference to me. I mean, I live comfortably within a budget, but (like many) all it takes is a car repair or injury to put me in hot water. So I'm grateful about the odd confluence of cashola. It's a nifty little counterbalance to my self-doubt - like the universe is giving me a thumbs-up.

I've taken so long to write this that, well, at this time tomorrow? I'll be landing in Minneapolis. Wish me luck!

S&M (aka Sundry & Miscellany. Gotcha!)

2007-07-03T11:34:00.000-04:00

Folks, I'll have you know that I reserved my seat for the Walnut Grove pageant back in January. I did this for several reasons, mainly because my eyesight is terrible. And I'm very short. I got it into my head that I'd get shuttled to the back of the audience and Carmen Miranda, with signature headdress, would be seated directly in front of me. More reasonably, I figured it might behoove me to get even some little expenses out of the way beforehand. I have, in my possession, one reserved ticket. Seat #5, in fact. In the red section. It may be my one shining moment of VIP-ness.

I was checking out the Walnut Grove pageant page, and I discovered that there are Pageant Suppers. Of course, I imagined a heartwarming scene of friendly folks sitting down to break bread together - something akin to the New England Suppers mentioned in the Little House books. I suppose, though, that it's highly likely that the supper will be more like the High School spaghetti dinner fund raisers that occur around here every spring. You know the drill: echoey cafeteria, decent food, a constant stream of diners. I guess, though, that I won't know until I get there. Either way, I think it's a great idea.

I'll be attending the Pageant Supper scheduled for Friday. I even checked out the menu. Hot beef? Hot turkey? Decisions, decisions. At the moment, I'm leaning toward beef, but it's a wild card.

The whole phenomenon put a rather interesting notion into my head. I know that there's a Little League/Boy Scout/church fundraiser nearly every weekend in the small town where I grew up, not to mention several events during the week. I began to wonder if the same wasn't true in these little towns, especially during the height of the Little House tourism season. I mean, if I were a church group in need of funds, I'd try to strike while the iron is hot.

I foraged around the internet, hoping to find information in local newspapers, but no dice. I think I'll still take a gander once I'm there. I like the idea of an inexpensive dinner that supports local organizations. Believe me, I spent years shilling cookies, and I hated every minute of it. If I can spare the members of a Girl Scout troop the same horrific fate? I'm all over that.

I had an odd dream last night. I dreamt that my trip was really part of a modern-day Homestead Act. However, instead of claiming vast acreage for farming, prospective homesteaders had to live in those little sample rooms at Ikea for a set amount of time in order to own one (we discussed Ikea/small living on one of my messageboards, so I guess that prompted this particular notion). Anyway, I was camped out in a room that seemed to have a secret space attached to the back of it, so I was excited that I'd claimed a particularly choice spot. I was a little concerned about the open plan of Ikea and the lack of privacy that my place afforded. My Mom then showed up with a plaid shower curtain and Harley, my cat. She helped me hang the curtain over the "open" wall, and laughingly told me that Harley really wasn't dead, he just wanted to live at Ikea.

So do we all, Harley, so do we all. It's my idea of Heaven, too, buddy.

I've been staging a few un-dress rehearsals lately. And, no, it's not as exciting as it sounds. Perhaps I'd be more in line to call it drying trial runs, but that's simply too much of a tongue twister. To my delight, I've found that most of my favorite clothing air dries overnight, if not within hours. It's appearing more and more possible that I could travel with nothing but one carry-on bag. In light of the recent instances of terrorism in Great Britain, I wouldn't be surprised if there are some pretty strict guidelines implemented for U.S. air travel. It would behoove me, I think, to have very little with me.

Oh, did I mention that I hate to fly? I do. I really, really do. Somehow, the fact that I'll have to actually board some (likely small) aircraft was something I've been busy not thinking about. I haven't been airborne since a trip to Florida five years ago. I remember thinking it was odd that US Airways would list the type of plane for the second leg of my trip (Pittsburgh to Tampa) but not the first (Scranton to Pittsburgh). Stranger still, we got to the airport, checked our bags, got through security ... and noticed that there was no plane in sight by the gate. I looked out of the plate glass windows, scanning the tarmac, but no plane. A little bit later, we were directed to step out of the building, go around a corner, and there it was: the smallest, shakiest-looking propeller plane that I'd ever seen. I'm convinced that they hid it around the corner so that people like me wouldn't see it and panic.

So take heed, Avoca International (hee!) Airport ... I'm on to your little tricks. I'm wise to the old hide-the-plane maneuver.

-----------------------------
Days until trip: 8
Money saved: $435.00

Jam Session

2007-06-26T22:53:00.000-04:00

Well, I think it's safe to say that the last week's been a pisser. They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stranger, and I guess I'm living proof of that.

In the midst of the tragedies, my closest friends kidnapped me. They insisted last Friday afternoon that I join them for an expedition. I think they meant it as a sorry-about-your-cat-but-happy-birthday gesture. And what's a certian cure for both a broken heart and the fast approach of my dotage?

Why, strawberry picking. Of course.

Now, these friends know their way around a strawberry patch. They showed up with a car full of shallow baskets. As they unloaded a shocking number of rustic wicker containers from their vehicle, I clutched my plastic ice-cream bucket and tried to look blase. N explained that shallow containers are best, because the weight of the berries in a deeper bucket could bruise the fruit on the bottom. Never fear, said I, I only want to get a few. N dubiously eyed my plastic can and offered use of one of their more appropriate baskets. I declined, insisting that there was NO WAY I'd pick enough berries to warrant any other container.

The most amazing thing about a strawberry patch is the smell. It's unbelieveable. It's not the cloying miasma of berry odor you might imagine, but, rather, gentle wafts of strawberry scent. Granted, we were there on a breezy, cool day. I suppose that there could be a pigpen effect in more stifling conditions. But as I experienced it? Sheer awsomeness.

N explained that the easiest way to move down the rows of plants was to straddle them and bend over to rifle through the leaves and pick the berries. I tried, at first, to harvest in a ladylike manner - kneeling alongside each plant to carefully pluck the fruit. I soon realized that straddle-with-ass-in-air was the way to go, so I finshed my picking in a most dignified position.

I suppose that it goes without saying that I filled my little ice cream bucket to the brim. The thing is this, though - it didn't seem to be all that many berries when I was in the field. I'm not sure if it was the sheer expanse of the strawberry patch or the astounding amount of berries my friends gathered (they're jelly/jam makers), but I thought I had just enough for me. And then I went home. Where I realized what nine pounds of berries really means.

It means berries for lunch. For breakfast. For the neighbors. I was considering chasing random strangers down the street in order to unload my bounty when it occurred to me that I could freeze the things. So I did. I'm now the proud owner of a freezer full of strawberries.

It's kind of a neat feeling to know that I'll have those berries when it's no longer the season. In fact, I feel rather Ingalls-ish about the whole thing, enough so that I'm thinking of doing the same for blueberry season. I shared my satisfaction with N, the queen of canning and pantry-filling. She agreed. And let me know not to let my guard down ... who knows when the berry squad might just whisk me off once more ....

Cool.
____________________
Days until trip: 16 (Yikes!)
Money saved: $325. (Yikes squared!)

Another Fond Farewell

2007-06-25T21:50:00.000-04:00

Dear Hooch,

I don't believe there was ever a more jumpy, excitable pup. Or one that could disperse fur with more efficiency. Because of you, I've learned to embrace beige carpeting. You were both a dynamo and an endless font of fur bunnies.

But you were also the most loving, the kindest dog I've ever encountered. I'm glad I had you in my life for all these years. Frankly, I pity the people who originally gave you up to the shelter, because they missed the adventure of a lifetime.

I keep listening for the jingle of your collar. The house seems so empty without you. Since I've lost my butter wrapper thief, dinner preparation just hasn't been the same. And, to be honest, I'm sad about that.

We loved you, Hooch. Every minute of every day. And we always will. Thank you for the privilege of being your Ma. I don't know that I deserved you, but I always appreciated you, Hoodaman.

All my love, friend.
Jen

A Fond Farewell

2007-06-21T10:18:00.000-04:00

Dear Harley,

Buddy, you were never the easiest cat around. In fact, you were known far and wide as the cat who nips for fun. If you'd been given a Native American name, I think it might've been Growls At Everything. Or perhaps Hunts And Bloodies Dangling Limbs. But, you know what? I loved you for it. You really had a fighting spirit like no other.

I'll remember your tireless pursuit of the laser pointer beam. The times you'd carry your favorite toy around the house, yelling all the while. Hell, the fact that said beloved toy was a plush candy corn from a crane machine. I'll remember that Birkenstocks really are the best cat chew items, ever. Most importantly, I'll remember that you were one who saw me through the sturm und drang of my early adulthood. For that, I thank you.

We'll miss you, Harley. My family, my friends, even the other pets. The moles of the neighborhood may now be breathing a collective sigh of relief, but you'll be sorely missed by the rest of us, O Mighty Hunter.

Not bad for a kitten who was once abandoned on a highway. You done good, kiddo.

All my love, friend.

Jen

Cookie? Monsters!

2007-06-12T09:13:00.000-04:00

I promised myself that I'd document the last month before my trip daily. I thought I'd write about my questions, my keen observations, my profound discoveries. But you know what? Everything I'd write just kept reminding me of that fortune cookie game. You know, the one where you add "in your pants" to the cookie's prediction:

You can be full of surprises ... in your pants.
Silence is golden .. in your pants.

Granted, these truths are self-evident, but I digress ...

*ahem*

Anyway, everything I'd write had the same kind of ring to it:

I ponder the weather ... on the prairie.
I can't wait to make my journey ... on the prairie.

Yuck. Dull. I didn't dare subject my four faithful readers to such crappy prose! Worse yet, it was tiresome to even type. I bored myself. Certainly, I am excited about my trip. I'm nervous, I'm curious. Am I counting the days? You bet.

But the whole thing did make me think about fortune cookies.

I went through a bit of a crisis a few years ago when I kept getting blank slips of paper in fortune cookies. My dining companions would get delightful quips, tidbits of advice, or lucky numbers. Me? Nothing but a little white wisp of paper, completely blank. This happened more than a few times. Now, I'd wager that some people might assume this was a good thing; perhaps the cookie Powers That Be felt I was on the right track and that I needed no shreds of wisdom. However, being the pessimist that I am, I was certain that it was a portent of doom, misery, and plagues by the score.

I tried to rationalize the whole thing. I reminded myself that in all the times I'd gotten a prediction, I had never gotten any kind of concrete, useful advice. My cookies never clued me in to the fact that I was dangerously close to bouncing a check. Hell, they never even had the courtesy to impart such wisdom as "Your fly is unzipped". Frankly, I'd always been the lonely loser of the fortune cookie circuit.

But, indeed, it got worse. One ominous day, I got a fortune cookie with nothing in it. Forget the blank paper angst ... this cookie had no paper at all! Nothing. It was simply a hollow confection. I'd like to say that this was a turning point in my life; that this was the moment I seized the reins of my adulthood. That I achieved full self-actualization. That the scales fell from my eyes and I became a woman of courage and integrity. If I said these things, however, I'd be lying. But I did the next best thing: I avoided fortune cookies for years.

Recently, I returned to the choppy seas of cookie prognostication. I'm glad that I did, because the fortune I got was kind of cool:

Replace your scars with stars.

... on the prairie?
... in your pants?

I'm not sure. But I love the mystery and intrigue. And the challenge!

---------------
Days until trip: 29
Money saved: $215. (Thanks, car! Did those fortune cookies give a heads-up? Nope. Damn cookies.)

Badlands! Bad! Bad!

2007-06-02T06:21:00.000-04:00

You know, it's really hard not to be able to do everything.

Lest you fear that I'm waxing philosophical ... I'm not. Not a bit. I'm just kvetching about all the wonderful things there are in South Dakota that are just a little bit too far away for me to see them.

Sure, I'd like to see Mount Rushmore. And Deadwood. And the Badlands - especially the Badlands. However, all of these are at least a 5+ hour drive from De Smet. I suppose that I could have structured the trip in another way that would allow for westward movement, but I was afraid that I'd end up trying to jam waaaay to much sightseeing into a one-week visit. And, to be honest, that instinct is probably spot-on. I planned this trip to check out a few of the Little House sites, and I deliberately tried to give myself time to really explore each thing. I like to think that I'll be glad I did.

But .... the Badlands. The goddam Badlands. The more I read about them, the more I really want to go. The pictures I've seen are amazing, and the descriptions I've read are compelling. I just don't know what to do. Even if I were to set aside a day ... well, it's a five-hour drive there and a five-hour drive back to De Smet. That leaves precious little time for actual, well, Badlanding, you know? It's really the sort of thing that would require quite a bit of time to adequately see. Days. Maybe even a week. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to back-burner the Badlands.

Too bad. It's sad. But to try to squeeze it in? I'd have to be mad.

------------------------------

Days until trip: 40
Money Saved: $485.00

The Girl's Got Baggage

2007-06-01T09:52:00.000-04:00

I'm a worrier. I worry about paying my bills. I worry about car wrecks. I'm one of those people who can never remember if I've locked a door or turned off the stove. Even though I've never failed to lock up or shut down, that simple fact doesn't allay my fears. I'll think to myself, "Sure, you got it every other time, but what if this time isn't a false alarm, huh? What about that, champ?" And so it goes.

Another of my sterling traits is that I'm a keeper of all stuff. That's not to say that I'm a slob, because I'm not remarkably sloppy ... well, except for my car (I subscribe to the Rhoda Morgenstern school of thought: my car is a purse on wheels). I'm just always afraid that I won't have something that I really need when I really need it. This, my friends, is why I carry toothpaste in my purse (and *ahem* my glove compartment).

At any rate, the convergence of these two tendencies has an unfortunate result: I bring everything with me when I travel somewhere. I mean, everything - with a capital E. Because, God knows, a trip to the shore just isn't complete without several Lipton Cup-O-Soup packets. Should you find that you're in dire need of a suncatcher or some Q-Tips while touring a major city? I'm your gal. I'll likely be able to provide tweezers, too.

I know. I've heard all the jokes about women and the seven hundred and forty-six pairs of shoes they must take with them on vacation. I just do it in a different direction; instead of a plethora of shoes, I'll bring a smorgasbord of random things that I just might, maybe, possibly need.

Anyway, my point is that I'm going to nip this in the bud. I'm planning to take this trip with only one carry-on piece of luggage. I know it can be done. I've been reading up on it, and, to be honest, it's not a crazy goal. I mean, most of the websites about traveling light address things like packing business suits or dealing with long hikes through the rain forest. Me? I'll be in t-shirts and shorts, traveling in a rental car, and staying at a few chain hotels.

I do, however, reserve the right to bring safety pins and a few plastic forks. My threshold for minimalist travel is only so low, folks.
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Days until trip: 41
Money saved: $485.00

Deutsche Post

2007-05-24T12:45:00.000-04:00

Achtung!

Yeah. That's me, practicing my rusty German. I began my high-school language studies with lofty aspirations - namely, Honors Latin I. Which was followed up by its breathtaking, thrill-a-minute sequel, Honors Latin II, Decline Harder. Despite the white-knuckle Ablative-O-Rama that that class was, I dropped the Latin pursuit and switched to German. See? I can't even nerd consistently.

Now, my German teacher, upon hearing my surname, was thrilled to have me join the group. He seemed to believe that I had German in my very soul, that I'd be spouting forth jewels of Teutonic poetry in no time. The man was a singer (and not a bad one, either), and he'd sing out my last name to demonstrate the sound of "o" without its common umlaut tophat. I didn't have the heart to tell him that my name's really shortened Polish. Or that I was taking German for far more shady purposes than a search for my ancestry.

You see, I was powerless against the umlauts.

No, I kid. I initially took German because I was preparing to spend a year in the Netherlands. I had a keen desire to avoid the "dumb, unworldly American" tag, so I hoped to get a small grip on a language that might be a bit useful. Since Dutch is a derivation of German, I also thought it couldn't hurt to get my hooks into the basic sentence structure and pronunciation. So, German it was. And, upon my return to American shores, I continued the German, throughout the rest of High School and into college. Unfortunately (or not, depending on how you look at it), I'm pretty decent with Dutch to this day, but my German? Ha! Beer steins and German Shepherds the world over snicker in my wake. It's that bad.

At any rate, I've been ruminating about Deutsch since I made a hotel reservation in New Ulm, Minnesota for the first night of my trip. It looks like such a nifty little town, and I'm incredibly drawn to it for some reason. I'd like to say that it's my interest in German coming full circle, but I suspect I'm especially attracted by the brewery and the promise of Bratwurst und Wienerschnitzel. And there's a Glockenspiel! Who could resist a Glockenspiel?! Not me, I'll tell you that much.

So the first two days of my adventure are shaping up pretty nicely. I'll be in Minneapolis rather early Wednesday morning. I'll grab my rental car, and trek to the Spam Museum. After an informative afternoon of canned meat product and kitsch, I'll scoot on over to New Ulm, where I'll spend the first night of my journey. I'd like to spend most of Thursday bumming around New Ulm, and then I'll head westward to the next night's reservations in Tracy, Minnesota.

And Tracy, my friends, is where the Little House Odyssey begins. Wunderschön!

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Days until trip: 49
Money saved: $460.00

The Today Show ... With A Little Navel-Gaving.

2007-05-19T21:45:00.000-04:00

Alert! Alert! I've just discovered that some members of the Little House on the Prairie cast will be featured on the Today Show tomorrow morning.

I have *ahem* already set my alarm to make sure that I'm awake on the day that is generally my catch-up-on-elusive-sleep day. I mean, it's Little House! Sure, it was a feel-good 70's adaptation of the series of books, but I'm not going to claim that it had no influence on me and my Little House obsession, because, well ... it did. Big time. I watched that series with alarming fidelity, even when presented with such unpalatable (and out-of-the-blue) topics as mime rapes and blind school fires.

The thing is, after having read a number of biographies of Laura Ingalls Wilder, I think she'd be mortified. About the television series, mostly - I mean, come on ... she'd be aflame in shame at the misrepresentations! But, most importantly, I think her basic sense of privacy and decency would be violated by her fans' scrutiny into her personal life. Granted, Laura was kind and responsive to her readers and fans, and she did appreciate them, but I see her as a woman with an incredible sense of dignity. She shared her life's experience in her books to some degree, but we've sort of of run with it and added all sorts of sentimental filigrees . The long-running TV series completely convoluted her relationship with Almanzo, never mind the major changes (both physical and psychological) to her family.

I'd always related to Laura throughout my childhood, and I'd thought I would as an adult. To be honest, though, I hardly think she'd approve of me. Sure, I'm independent. I value education, and I'm an avid reader and researcher. I've got a strong work ethic, and I pride myself on my ability to be pretty self-sufficient, to do without when needs must, to be able to survive and save on a minimal budget. Still, though .. I'm weak, whiny, self-centered. I frequently feel sorry for myself. I'm vain, on occasion. And I willingly share my thoughts and experiences, both good and bad, on this very blog and others. I can't imagine she'd respect that.

Recently, I've read Becoming Laura Ingalls Wilder. Surprisingly, I found the family dynamic familiar; however, I realized (with a shock!) that it's a pretty spot-on analysis of the relationship that I shared with my now-deceased mother. I was amazed to find that I related, to an unnerving degree, to Rose. Previously, I hadn't felt either way about Rose Wilder Lane, but I could completely subscribe to her relations with her strong, self-confident mother - her overwhelming love for the woman (both as a person and as a parent), her frustration at their differences and the inevitable comparisons, shame concerning her repeated bouts with severe depression, personal disappointment about her diffused sense of direction. I really hadn't expected my paradigm to shift in such a way, but it has.

I'd always wished that I could have met Laura. Now I'm wishing that I could've met Rose, too.

*cue Little House theme music* Anyway, though, I'll be checking out the Today Show tomorrow morning. If nothing else, Alison Arngrim's a gal I really respect for a thousand reasons, and - dammit - I've got a personal attachment to Nels and Harriet! And some friends (you know who you are, ladies) might just get into a mud-wrestling match over Dean Butler (Almanzo Wilder on the show). Really ... who could pass that up?

We've Got The Punc(tuation), Gotta Have That Punc(tuation). Yeah.

2007-05-03T08:40:00.000-04:00

I don't speak any Spanish, whatsoever. Okay ... I lie. I know a few random words from childhood viewings of Sesame Street. If I find myself in Spain and in dire need of an apple, I'm set. If I feel the need to alert someone in Mexico that a door is open, I'm golden. Other than that? Nada.

The thing I really like about Spanish is the punctuation. ¿The punctuation? Yep, that's right - the punctuation. If a statement starts with a question mark or exclamation point, there can be no doubt as to where the sentence is heading. Since I don't like surprises, this appeals to me. ¡Fantastic!

(Yes, I did look up instructions on how to make these punctuation marks. Better yet, I made a little cheat sheet. Because I am just that cool.)

The best one of all is the exclamation point. In addition to indicating what's to follow, it seems to amplify the statement, somehow. Next to "¡dynamite!", a plain old "dynamite!" just looks like a cherry bomb. Why, oh why, don't we use this method in English? ¿Why? I mean, we're unafraid to incorporate a random "pronto" or "sayonara" into our dialogue, so what's wrong with a little rearranged exclamation point? ¡Seriously!

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Days until trip: 70
Money Saved: $440.00

You Can't Do Without It - It's Electric!

2007-05-01T12:40:00.000-04:00

Boogie-woogie-woogie-woogie.

Yep. I went there. I quoted the most awful song known to mankind, ever. What would drive an otherwise (marginally) sane person to mention that heinous song, never mind Google the godawful lyrics? Well, only one thing ... a snowstorm. Let me take you on a party ride, indeed.

Just two weeks ago (!), we were walloped by a nor'easter to the tune of more than fourteen inches of heavy, wet snow. Oddly enough, spots just a few miles away got an inch or two. But not me. Nosiree. The snow fell fast and hard, and as the afternoon progressed, power began to fail all over the area. We held out until about four or so, then the juice stopped flowing at my Dad's house. I wasn't sure if this was caused by downed wires or the old car-vs.-pole thing, but the only sensible course of action was to proceed directly to the local bar. So we did. Since the bar is just a few blocks away, I figured it was pretty likely that the place would also be sans power, and I was right.

What I didn't expect, however, was how different the usual watering hole would be without electricity. No televisions. No jukebox. Not even the ambient noise of the heating system or the ice machine. Just quite a few patrons, chatting amiably by the light of a few candles and the waning daylight that shone through the windows. It was positively surreal. Fun, but surreal.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when a friend posted about having had no power - for days! - on a messageboard that I frequent. She hadn't posted for a while, and just as we were about to send out a search party, she resurfaced with harrowing tales of a multi-day power loss. Now there's a gal who could handle life of the prairie. I was pissing and moaning after a few hours, especially once the novelty (not to mention my buzz) wore off.

I keep thinking of The Long Winter. If you've never read it, give it a shot, even if you're not a Little House kind of person. It's an interesting read. I liked it as a kid, but when I checked it out again as an adult, I was blown away by how long and awful that winter really was, and how close the people in DeSmet came to outright starvation. Because no trains could make it through, there was nothing to burn for heat except twisted chunks of hay. And nothing to eat but ground-up seed wheat made into brown bread. For months. Months! Jeez, I was upset that I couldn't microwave some popcorn that snowy afternoon. Makes ya' think.

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Days until trip: 72

Money saved: $425.00

Stop! Grammartime.

2007-04-26T11:04:00.000-04:00

Ever heard of Glamour Bombing? I hadn't either until recently. From what I understand, it's a sort of guerrilla performance art. A sneak attack of cute, if you will. While I can appreciate the sentiment behind it (God knows I dig the absurd), I think there's a far greater need for something else:

Grammar Bombing.

I've been anticipating this movement for years. When I find glaring errors in the local newspaper, I've been known to red-pencil them and mail the page back to said paper anonymously. If the mistakes are particularly bad, or if I'm in a foul mood, I'll add a "shame on you" to the top of my missive for good measure. The most heinous instance was the repeated use of the word "trusties" in the place of "trustees". In a headline. On the front page. I had no choice but to Grammar Bomb.

The most common instances of language abuse seem to involve misplaced apostrophes and quote marks. Daily special's. "Fresh" flowers. I know I've waxed poetic about this before, but, dammit, it's just getting worse. Occasionally, I'll run into a sign or a menu with striking errors, and I sometimes try to point them out, often using humor. I ran into a whiteboard martini menu last week that read, simply: Martini's. Martini's what? Martini's socks? Martini's philosophy? Martini's shattered dreams? The suspense nearly killed me. If there had been an available whiteboard marker I might have posted these musings. I might have had to Grammar Bomb.

Does this mean I'm nuts? Probably. Do I care? Not a whit. When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one gal to dissolve the steadfast hold of the misused apostrophe ... well, she has to go for it. She's got a moral imperative to Grammar Bomb. Right? Right.

I suppose that I'm most bothered by the fact that many of these newspaper articles and signs must pass through the hands of several people during production. Here's an example: the sign on a local hair salon reads "Cuts For Men and Boy's". Now, somebody had to figure out the wording on that sign. Perhaps they sketched out the basics. Then they approached a business to manufacture the sign. I'd imagine that the design and layout were approved by the original author. Then the sign had to be made. It had to be installed. And nobody, nobody, noticed the bad punctuation? Nobody even tried to tactfully suggest, even from an aesthetic perspective, that the apostrophe might not be a good move (never mind the random capitals)? That's what astounds me.

I won't even go into the wholesale slaughter of there/their/they're.

Now, I'm not a hypocrite. Well, okay, maybe a little bit. I know there are likely countless errors on this very blog. This entry alone probably contains fifteen grammatical missteps. However, I'm not a writer. I'm not an editor. It's not my job to produce perfect prose. I do my best, but - hey - I know my limitations, and I welcome correction. Besides, I suspect my readership probably lingers in the lofty single digits, so at the very least my carnage is contained. But a newspaper? Don't they hire people to edit and fact-check? Wouldn't a signmaker double-check these things?

I may be guilty of all sorts of moral shortcomings. Thankfully, misplaced possessives don't generally appear on that roster.

So their. How about them apple's?

Science!

2007-04-10T14:55:00.000-04:00

Well, Arbor Day bit me in the ass with its now-you-see-it-now-you-don't routine. I was beginning to think it was a figment of my imagination! Maybe it's like Tinkerbell - if you don't believe in it, it ceases to exist? Perhaps it's a manifestation of all those trees that I planted in the oft-mowed back yard, led like lambs to the slaughter? Both? I don't know.

But, apparently, Arbor Day does still happen. It just hides itself well. In the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, it's celebrated on the last Friday of April. I had to Google a bit to find this out, because the suspense was killing me. So we get Earth Day and Arbor Day in rapid succession, a sort of wham-bam-plant-trees-ma'am. Okay, then.

Why do I keep on harping on this? No real reason. But it did get on my radar again this week when a friend and her four-year-old son invited me to participate in an Egg Drop contest in honor of Earth Day. Let's celebrate the environment! We'll chuck some eggs from a cherry picker! Wahoo!

I kid. But just a bit. Sure, I'll pull a world-weary, sarcastic attitude. I'll do this because .... well, *clears throat, gets shifty eyes* because science scares me. And any sort of engineering feat is far beyond my ken. I want to participate in this, but I'm not really good at the rational, planning aspects of things. Shocking, I know. Still, my four-year-old buddy already managed to design and carry out his plan for unbroken eggs. Me? I'm lucky to crack an egg on the side of a bowl without getting egg yuck all over the place. But my competitive nature is kicking in, so I will attempt to build something that will protect falling eggs everywhere.

I have to admit, though, that every time I hear (or type) "Egg Drop", my mind goes immediately to soup. Yum.

*ahem*

So we'll be making the trek to Ithaca, NY to throw some eggs around. I have a sneaking suspicion that my best bet will be the "splat" category, but I'm trying to be optimistic here. I've got some ideas. I mean, wouldn't a sunbonnet make a fantastic parachute? It protects from the sun! It saves delicate eggs in a single bound! It makes thousands of julienne fries! It ... yeah. Creative process. Brainstorming and all that.

It will be fun to have a challenge. My trip is mostly planned out and paid for, now I'm just waiting for July to happen. I'm getting pretty adept at the water-fitness thing. Work is a festering black hole of yuck but, then again, does anyone "fun" for forty hours a week? Nuh-uh. Didn't think so. They pay you because you'd never show up otherwise. So it'll be fun to try something different, smash a few eggs, and omelets be damned.

Days until trip: 92
Money saved: $425.00

Peep Show

2007-04-06T19:41:00.000-04:00

You know what I really get a kick out of? Peeps. I have a unholy love for those little marshmallow chicks. Especially the yellow ones. I find them hysterical in a way I can't define. But is has to be the chicks. I'm not too fond of the bunny shapes. And the Christmas trees? An abomination. But I really do love me some classic yellow Peeps.

I'm not a tattoo person, but if I were, there'd be a small Peep somewhere on my body.

I don't like to eat them, really. I mean, I give them the old college try every Easter, but I generally end up snarfing back just one or two and feeding the rest to the dog (or sticking them to him. Try it! It works!). I just happen to be more of a salty snack kind of gal. So it's a good thing that Peeps are available for purchase in small packages (the dog thinks so, too).

Since I like to spend my internet time on sophisticated and weighty matters, I found the Peeps home page and joined the Peeps fan club last week. I did this in order to get unfettered access to exclusive Peeps avatars and e-cards. Because, really, nothing says "I've got important information to impart" quite like images of frolicking marshmallow chickens, right? Right.

While Peeping around, I found that fate does, indeed, work in mysterious ways. There are, apparently, raving masses of people out there who share my Peep fixation. And, surprisingly, some of them have a similar fondness for Spam. Yes, that Spam - the kind that was a Monty Python muse. Even better? There's a Spam museum.

Best of all? That museum happens to be in Austin, Minnesota. I'm going. I have to.

When I look at my schedule, I have the first day of the trip pretty much open. I'll be landing in Minneapolis rather early, getting my rental car, and hitting the road. With my mad Mapquest skillz, I find that I can proceed directly to the museum, spend some time among the cheese of it all, and have plenty of time to get my sunbonnetted ass to the town where I've reserved a hotel for that night. It's a little out of the way, but not much. And, well, it's a Spam museum. how could I resist?

You might ask yourself this: how can our gal reconcile a trip to a Spam museum with her planned prairie pilgrimage? Well, the truth is ... I can't, really. There's no spiffy way that I can tie it in with my mission. It's like apples and oranges. Or Peeps and canned meat.

But it's my destiny. The little marshmallow chicks showed me the way.

Days until trip: 96

Money saved: $425.00

Arboring Resentment

2007-04-04T13:39:00.000-04:00

For some reason, I was thinking about Arbor Day today. I looked at a calendar to see when, exactly, Arbor Day would happen, and - Lo! - it seems to be a thing of the past. We do Earth Day these days, apparently. Either that, or I've got a shitty, tree-hating calendar. Or both.

We used to get small pine trees in school on Arbor Day. They were little seedlings with their roots and some dirt carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. Here in Scrantonland, each tree had a little tag attached to it that told us it was a gift from the Globe Store. (Now, before you think that we were especially environmentally aware in these parts ... well, no. The Globe Store simply happened to be the name of the local Wanamaker department store, nothing more.)

Those tags were touching little epistles, especially designed to tug at the heartstrings of sappy kids like me. I can't remember exactly what they said but it was something like this:

"I am your Arbor Day tree, a gift from The Globe Store. Please take care of me and plant me in a sunny place. If you remember to give me plenty of water so I can grow, I'll put carbon dioxide into the air and give you shade on a sunny day."

The helplessness touched me deeply . These poor little wisps of trees were depending on us! Looking to be nurtured and loved! Just asking for a sunny spot and some water! I'd read my tree's tag on the bus ride home, and my mind would hear it in a childlike voice - a voice, in fact, that sounded an awful lot like Rudolph from those Rankin-Bass Christmas specials. I'd know in my fifth-grade heart that my tree was lucky to have found me. Carefully shielding it from the jostling middle school crowds, I'd cradle it in the palms of my hands. I may even have talked to it. At any rate, I took my tree obligation seriously. My tree needed me and, dammit, I wasn't about to disappoint.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the other kids on the bus. Especially the boys. They'd grab the sprig of tree and swat at each other with the Baggie-encased root ball. Several especially unfortunate trees sailed out of the windows of the moving bus. I was mortified, and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. Those poor trees! They never had a chance!

Every year I'd plant my tree in the back yard. And every year my father, Philistine that he was, mowed it down as he cut the grass. He didn't mean to wantonly pillage the environment, he simply didn't see the small stick with its four pine needles sticking out of the ground. He apologized each time, but it was no use. None of my trees ever survived.

I've never forgotten the trees that became whips, or the ones that were flung out the window. But it occurred to me now (just today, in fact) that the tossed trees, the ones I felt so sad about, probably live to this day, happily populating the rural area into which they were tossed. Mine just mulched the backyard. Oh well.

I'm Lily-livered. And Not A Water Lily, Either.

2007-02-26T10:45:00.000-05:00

See Jen swim. Swim, Jen, swim!

Like many people, I'm the proud owner of a long-neglected gym membership. For the first two years or so, I went faithfully, treadmilling and swimming three or four times a week. I rather enjoyed it. Then I got a part-time evening job. I told myself that once I adjusted to the additional sixteen hours of work, I'd find time to get my ever-increasing ass to the gym. But I didn't. After six months passed, I was embarrassed to go. I'd picture swarms of YMCA employees stopping me and I tried to enter the building, frisking and then interrogating me with a steely demeanor that would put the Gestapo to shame.

Because, you know, the success of the entire YMCA organization hinges on whether or not I show up for a session on the Elliptical machine.

Anyway, I was motivated to show my face this Saturday because a friend of mine also joined. I met her for a 9:00 am Shallow Water Fitness class.

This is the same friend who, during dire financial straits, pined over the Y-affiliated hikes that she couldn't attend. She's much more of a hiker than I am, and, at the time, was a new Mom. It sounded like a fun reason to get out of the house, and I'll admit that many of the hikes sounded pretty interesting. I offered to pay the required fee as an early birthday present, but my friend, in addition to her other sterling qualities, is proud. Me? Not at all. I'll grovel, beg, whip up tears, whatever. Her sense of personal dignity dictated that she'd come up with the spare cash on her own or she wouldn't go.

"But it's a five dollar fee for non-members, and free for me. Maybe we could say that you're me and then I'll pay the fee, and we can both go?"

No dice. They do, apparently, check membership cards before setting out. Or at least we were sure they'd bust us somehow. And shame us for attempted hike theft.

"How about this: we decide which hike we want to attend, find out where they start, then sort of follow them. We could walk about thirty feet behind the legitimate hikers. If they seem to notice us, we'll back off a bit and pretend that we're checking out foliage of something. Or we could act like we don't speak English. I mean, what can they do, really? Run away from us so we can't follow? You can't get twenty people to run away in unison like that. We could wear camouflage!"

I thought it was a marvelous plan. She didn't agree. So we never did try it.

We did, however, get to prance about in the "warm pool" (there are two pools) with a number of experienced shallow-water-fitness folk. I really thought, as a former runner and person in generally decent shape, that I'd kick all kinds of ass. I was wrong. But it was fun, and something I'm going to do every Saturday morning.

I really do love to swim, but a pool with occupied lanes sometimes put the stoppers on me. I guess that we're supposed to share lanes in such a scenario, but I was mortified by the notion. I mean, what do you do? Just barge in on somebody's lane? Do you ask permission? How would you decide which swimmer would be your victim? I'd either meekly retreat to the locker room and sadly remove my suit, or (if I was feeling brave) I'd quietly sit around waiting for somebody to finish. I'm such a wuss.

And I am. I'm wussiness personified. I'm afraid of everything. I'm afraid to drive in snow. I'm afraid to join a book club. I'm afraid to fly. I'm afraid of disappointing people or hurting their feelings. I'm ballsy as hell if I've got accompaniment, but alone? I'm always sure that I'm strange, that I'm out of line, that I won't be able to handle things as well as everyone else does. People who know me are surprised that I feel this way because I usually hide it well, but the fact remains: I am a coward. And it's the thing about myself that I hate the most.

In light of this, I've been trying really hard to do things that are scary to me. I refused to let last week's blizzard change my plans, and I drove to a friend's house. I slid a bit, but I was fine. I opted to book some hotel rooms by phone, eschewing the safe anonymity of internet reservations. I found friendly people who were curious about the nature of my trip. I went out for dinner by myself at a fancy place, and nobody pointed and laughed. In fact, I enjoyed myself.

I know I've written before about solitude. And it's still an issue with me. But the biggest shame of all would be to go on this trip, my dream, and be too afraid to enjoy it. I see this as the ultimate test: Can I do this all alone, and comfortably? Confidently? Survey says ..... if I can handle the indignity of being the awkwardest galoot at Shallow Water Fitness, I can handle anything.

Days until trip: 135
Money saved: $350. 00

Need Help? Me? Nah - Just Browsing

2007-02-07T11:39:00.000-05:00

I stopped at the grocery store last night to pick up plastic gloves, bleach and razor blades (more about that in another post), and the girl at the register had no eyebrows. I mean, she had eyebrows, but they were carefully drawn-on shapes that, indeed, were not quite in the spot where eyebrows should be. Nor were they the shape that eyebrows tend to take. To be honest, they reminded me of tadpoles (or, more insidiously, sperm). Although she was friendly, speedy, and seemed very competent, it was all I could do to not stare. Rude, I know. I don't think her ersatz brows were because of the effects of chemotherapy or such, since she had a full head of hair, but who knows?

She wasn't the first penciled-in Picasso that I've run across, either - just the most recent. Such an odd phenomenon. I mean, I could understand the brow-pencil action if the wearer, indeed, had no brows for whatever reason. But to voluntarily remove them and reposition them? That .. I just don't get. Then again, I probably shouldn't talk. If all the tweezers of the world went on strike tomorrow, I'd be mistaken for Ernie's Bert with alarming frequency. But I tame. I do my best not to eliminate.

Anyway, it made me remember the Itty Bitty Baby incident.

My mom, before she passed away, became a collector of the American Girls series of dolls. Since she'd order things from time to time, the company sent an ever-expanding parade of catalogs. As the series grew in national popularity, they'd add to the collection of dolls. So far, so good. However, they went too far when they added the collection of infant dolls called Itty Bitty Baby dolls.

Aside from the cloying, vomitrocious name, these dolls, to me, were disconcerting. They creeped me out. Big time. With each successive catalog, I'd examine the dolls and say to myself, "What is it? What is it about these plastic newborns that makes them look like pod people?" It took months, but I finally realized the problem: they had no eyebrows. None. Not even a hint of a brow on the realistically-crafted ridge of bone where a brow should be. This resulted in a strikingly dead-eyed look; a jarring lack of expression.

Fool that I was, I shared my apprehension with my mom. Thus began an avalanche of torn-out catalogue pages with be-browed Itty Bitty Babies. There were angry Itty Bitty Babies. Worried Itty Bitty Babies. Surprised Itty Bitty Babies. One memorable Itty Bitty Baby had a jauntily cocked left brow, another had angular brows to rival Sesame Street's Count.

When I shared this experience some time ago with a friend, she wasn't the least bit dismayed. She'd had a similar notion, thinking it would be great if she shaved off her eyebrows, then drew on expressions appropriate to the occasion. "Just think!" she said, "If I have to go out and kick ass for some reason, I'd paint on angry brows. If I have to go to a funeral, I'd do sad ones. It'd be fabulous! I'd never have to move my face at all!" I briefly considered the fact that this would, likely, stave off the appearance of wrinkles well into our dotage. It even appealed to my inherent laziness! Then I nixed the idea. I was afraid of becoming an Itty Bitty Baby.

It's strange how one checkout girl at the supermarket can bring on this existential brow crisis. But there you have it. Speaking of, it's high time I de-Berted.

Days until trip: 154
Money saved: $350.00 (Still. I suck.)

Getting My Phil

2007-02-02T12:12:00.000-05:00

Ah. Groundhog Day. One of my favorite holidays, second only to Arbor Day.

I don't have to buy gifts. I don't have to decorate.The best part of all? No forced cheeriness. I can be as surly as I like, since that sort of behavior is par for the course in the dead of winter. What a wonderful, relaxing, comfortable holiday it is, indeed.

I especially like the fact that the date is 2/2. I have a peculiar fondness for prime numbers, and 2 is the only prime that is also an even number. Even numbers generally annoy me, but for this reason alone, 2 gets a pass (even though it could be argued that 2 is the ultimate even number).

So it's a good day all around.

This year, Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow, thus predicting that spring is just around the corner. This "see his shadow" thing has confused me since I was a child. When I was small, I thought it meant that if Phil emerged from his hole facing the wrong direction and his shadow was behind him, it was the harbinger of early spring, since he wouldn't actually "see" it. What if Phil didn't open his eyes? Or went blind? What if he was distracted by something else and didn't look at the ground? Could he just pretend not to see it (sort of like my habit of pretending not to see piles of laundry) and force the hand of the seasons?

This confusion could have been averted if we'd replaced "sees his shadow" with "has a shadow", of course. It's interesting that we give Phil all the power here. Then again, if it were just "has a shadow" any marker would suffice. We might have "Stick Day", and that would never do. So this whole process requires a sentient being, I guess. Ah well. With great power comes great responsibility.

Days until trip: 159
Money saved: $350.00

Hey! Get a room, already. Sheesh.

2007-01-29T13:51:00.000-05:00

Hotel room in Walnut Grove vicinity? Booked
Hotel for two nights in DeSmet? Booked
Reservation to camp in a "Covered Wagon" on the Ingalls Homestead? Pending.
A cheesy mix of Prairie and Queen? Priceless.

(Bohemian Rhapsody)

Is this the real life?
Is it just fantasy?
Full steam ahead
For my trip out to the prairie
Traveling west
Doing my best to see -
I'm just a spinster
A spinster who's read the books:
Little House, Little Town
(Got the whole series down)
Now I want to see it,
Now it's time for a look-see
Prairie!

First off, I tried DeSmet
What an easy-peasy day -
Lots of places I could stay
But trouble came with Walnut Grove
Any hotels were a little drive away
Tracy (oooooh - Tracy, Minnesota)
Seven miles to the west
It seemed to be the best that I could do
So I called, and I booked
For Tracy, Minnesota

My last move?
The Homestead spot
I've called there several times, but the phone just rings a lot
Dammit! I'm kind of getting scared
That they might have filled their July 13th slot
Homestead? (oooooh - please answer the phone, guys)
A "covered wagon" stay
Might be the most important part of all ....

(guitar solo)

I booked a little internet hotel room
In DeSmet! In DeSmet!
On the South Dakota prairie
Booked it quick as lightning,
The way I got my flight - online!

Minnesota, Minnesota,
Minnesota, Minnesota,
Minnesota ...Walnut Gro-oh-oh-ove
It's just a small town, tiny, I assume -
It's just a small town, without a hotel room!
Got out a map, then I Googled, and - boom!

Found a place to rest my head, now for the Homestead -
It just rings - No! They won't answer the phone! (Get the phone!)
Goddammit, No! They won't answer the phone! (Get the phone!)
Goddammit, No! They won't answer the phone! (Get the phone!)
No, no, no, no, no, no, no -
They won't answer, they won't answer, they won't answer the damn phone
It's evident there's no Little Answering Machine!
On the!
Prairie!

So you think you can be a "covered wagon" tease?
So you think you can answer the phone as you please?
Oh, Homestead - can't do this to me, Homestead
Just gotta' reserve, I just wanna' reserve that camp site

My plans are almost wrapped up -
Anyone can see ....
Despite this blog commotion
The wheels are all in motion -
Whoo-eee!
Counting down the days, now ......

Days until trip: 163
Money saved: $350.00

Jenny's Got A Gun (Or the Cash Value Thereof)

2007-01-21T22:32:00.000-05:00

Well, I did it! I booked my flight and reserved my rental car. I'm really going!

You may ask how I was able to accomplish this in one fell swoop (or even one swell foop), especially considering the recent holidays and my shamefully small savings account. Well, it's all possible because of two things: the tonsils that ate Cincinnati and ... well, a gun.

I'd bought some of those raffle tickets where you win if one of your ticket numbers matches the Pennsylvania Lottery numbers within a given month. Frankly, such things are tantamount to donations for me, since I never, ever win anything. Anyway, I only bothered to check the numbers in the first week of January. And it certainly wasn't a fevered, excited checking. It was more like a ho-hum-I've-already-checked-my-usual-sites-and-nothing's-shaking kind of internet check. Imagine my surprise when the nightly drawing number for December 17 matched my ticket! My prize? A rifle, and quite a nice one from what I gather. I did, however, have the option to receive my award in the form of cash.

Oddly enough, the cash value of the rifle was within ten dollars of the cost of a round-trip plane ticket from Avoca, Pennsylvania to Minneapolis.

So, of course, I opted for the gun.

Okay. I kid. I chose the cash prize, deposited it pronto into my checking account, obsessively checked the account until it cleared, and reserved my flight the moment that it did.

And the tonsils? What a pleasure they were. I apparently contracted Dengue fever (or a reasonable facsimile) in the middle of December. By December 19th or so, I was running a high fever, had glands so swollen that my hearing was shot, and my immediate environs had begun to look, to me at least, like the nifty psychedelic backdrop from a Grateful Dead show. Good times. I took a day off to rest up, but the illness only seemed to get progressively worse.

Somehow, in a fever-induced haze, I decided that the only sensible thing to do was get out there and get my Christmas shopping done. I figured that I'd either be comatose or dead by the big day, so I might as well leave my loved ones with some carefully-chosen trinkets to remember me by. Unfortunately, The Clapper was hard to come by this year, so everybody got lesser mementos. But get that shopping done, I did.

The upside of my infirmity was that I had finished my elven duties before I got my Christmas bonus at work. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the bounty of Christmas bonuses, so ill was I. The result was that I was able to stash the money in my checking account, to spend as selfishly as I pleased.

Some of that money went to buy a to-die-for pair of heeled suede boots. And some of it paid for my car rental.

So, friends, the wheels are in motion. I'm really, really doing this! I mean, I knew I was, but now it's actually happening. I think I may spend this week (and the remainder of my bonus plus other residual cash in my checking account) on hotel reservations. As crazy as it sounds, I think I may have this trip bought and paid for by Valentine's Day. Then I'll concentrate on stashing spending money in my checking account.

A gun and a set of swollen glands. Huh. Who knew?

Days until trip: 171
Amount Saved: $335.00

Ho, ho! The Misanthrope ....

2006-12-06T14:57:00.000-05:00

.... search no more, I'm she
Some folks like Christmastime,
None of those folks are me ...

Well, hell. I've been lost in a fog of newly-minted singlehood, plummeting temperatures and dreadful Christmas music. It's been tough, but I've managed to persevere. You may ask yourself, "How? How can this woman present such a brave face to a cold and unfeeling world?"

Well, kids, I live in Scranton.

Did you ever see those satellite pictures of the United States where you can see all the lights? Those nighttime shots that show the light pollution patterns of North America? If you were to see one that was taken in the month of December, you'd see a tacky, flashing red blob over the northeastern region of Pennsylvania. Said blob would be composed of large "snowglobes" that imprison Winnie the Pooh, flashing reindeer who are poised to spring from rooftops, and countless Marys(Maries?)-in-bathtubs who are bathed in the seductive glare of sixty-four red floodlights each. If you were to listen closely - even from space - you'd likely hear the tinny blare of Christmas songs issuing forth from nine hundred and thirty-six outdoor sound systems designed to enhance the more thorough of the holiday yardscapes.

You may think I exaggerate. Indeed, I do not.

It's always struck me as amusing that so many holiday films make much of "that house" ... the one that's completely festooned in holiday crappery. If you're from Scranton, the gag is completely lost on you. Rather, you'll look at the countless strings of lights and the six-foot-tall illuminated, spinning candy canes and think, "What a piker! Hell, that place over on Moosic Street had more going on by the first week of October!" Sad, really. In our local efforts to remind neighbors that the holidays are, indeed, upon us, we've managed to blunt our humor. And our collective sense of restraint, apparently.

Sheesh - I really do sound like a snob. And I'm not. Granted, I'm more of a fan of a simple Moravian Star porch light or carefully-placed strings of monochromatic bulbs, but I do appreciate the work that goes into these houses. I can't imagine being so full of holiday joy that I'm motivated to erect small Christmas vignettes with moveable mannequins. Still, though, I get a kick out of driving around the city, gaping at the well-lit homes. Imagine the effort! The sheer number of extension cords required! The electric bills!

It's really something. I may have to collect photographic evidence.

That said, I really don't like Christmas all that much. Perhaps that makes me a rotten person, but it's the truth. The only parts of the whole shebang that I like are the repeated onslaughts of calorie-rich food and the decoration of my Christmas tree. I often consider the fact that these are activities that I could do at any time during the year. I mean, I could haul a spruce tree indoors and decorate it to celebrate Labor Day or the Academy Awards. Others might think it a sign of mental illness, but, indeed, it could be done. In addition, I'm living proof that fattening foods can be cherished throughout the year. So the two most appealing parts of the holiday, for me, are things that I could do at any time. This realization sort of shoots down the whole "most wonderful time of the year" theory. For me at least.

Chicken. Underpants. Grammar. What's not to like?

2006-11-09T22:54:00.000-05:00

Grrr. Bleh. Duh. Ick.
*ahem*

Of course, the best thing for a broken heart is saturated fat. And sodium. Excessive sodium. With this in mind, I hied myself down to the nearest Burger King for lunch today. Hell, I'm now a true spinster even by the strictest letter of the law, so a bikini-worthy body is no longer a priority. Besides, it's November, so I can afford to be cavalier. I ordered a processed-chicken-product sandwich, then returned to home base and shared it with my cats, as any spinster worth her salt would do. I probably should have put on my sunbonnet for this activity, but the beloved bonnet is lost somewhere in that metric assload of moving boxes.

Poor sunbonnet. I think I might hear the faint wail of my neglected savings account, too. I seem to be all about neglect of things prairie lately.

In a misguided attempt to achieve a zen-like state, I fear I'll have to bust out my mad haiku skillz:

Since there's no cheesecake,
And no Haagen-Dazs around
Crap chicken it is!

Oval-shaped, enhanced
With fatty bits resembling
Pencil erasers.

How do they do it?
How do they hide the gristle
Right in the center?

Tucked in carefully,
I think I am safe. Alas!
Four bites in, I'm screwed.
----

When did I gather
This number of underpants?
How did this happen?

Lazy on laundry,
I've gone so far as to wear
Bikini bottoms

I didn't need to,
Since I obviously own
Fifteen thousand pairs.

Were they all hiding?
Challenging me? Appearing
Only when I move?
----

Know what drives me nuts?
Misused apostrophe marks.
They're not for plurals.

More horrifying?
Quotation marks that are used
To show emphasis.

If I see a sign
Saying "fresh" fish, I think it's
Anything but. Yuck.

Blah. Plus a creepy guy, just for yuks. Or yucks.

2006-10-17T10:53:00.000-04:00

Check out the icky guy in this picture. I'm not sure what's more unnerving about it: his greasy look - even while bathing! - or his creepy pawing at that poor lady in the bathrobe. I just love her expression; it looks like she's forcing a smile so she won't vomit. Heh. This photo was used to tout a spa which, in all honesty, is probably amazing. It was in all sorts of "local attractions" brochures that were scattered about the vacation house, each ad using only this picture to sell the spa. Ick! But more about that later...

I've been lurking, hiding, skulking around. I've been avoiding the not-so-big, bad savings account. I haven't added anything to it in about a month, so I'm a little embarrassed. I've even avoided driving by the branches of that particular bank, so great is my shame.

Then again, I've managed to get through a month of surprise expenses, a vacation (for which I had no extra stash of cash or credit cards), and the annual round of vet visits without (drumroll, please ...) having to dip into said savings account. So I suppose that's something. It didn't look as if I'd be able to leave those savings unmolested, but I've managed to do it. Sure, I've got three bucks to see me through until Friday ... but the savings account remains.

There's a nifty little farmer's stand near my job that operates on the honor system. It's really something. You can go to this little building, pick out whatever you'd like, and you stick the payment for your goodies in a little slot in the wall. There's the usual veggies there, but they also have fresh eggs, canned goods, and baked items. The farmer provides scratch paper, a calculator and a tacklebox full of cash to make change, if necessary. Interestingly, I've noticed that I tend to round up my total to the nearest dollar when I shop there - my last total was something like $12.15, so I dropped $13.00 in the little slot. When I mentioned it to a friend who also shops there, she said that she and her husband do the same. I'm not sure why we do that. I mean, it'd be simple to just take our change from the tacklebox, but neither of us even thinks of it. I've seen others do it, too. It's almost like we all want to thank that farmer for trusting our decency. Or maybe we want to make sure that he's covered in the event that somebody takes something without paying? Whether our motives are kindly or cynical, it's an interesting phenomenon.

It's become rather cold, but I refuse to turn on the heat to my apartment. When it gets into the fifty-degree zone, I put on another sweatshirt and tell myself that I'm getting the true pioneer experience. Sometimes I lie to myself and think that it's all just a matter of getting used to cooler temperatures. Other times I've tried to see it as a competition: who among my circle of folks can hold out the longest without cranking up the thermostat? Well, I won that round. So it's back to the prairie experience delusion. My goal is to make it until November 1, if possible. Until then, I'll be baking quite a bit and hanging out in my small (read: warm) kitchen. I'm hoping the guy in the downstaris apartment will turn out to be a heat fiend, and I can sort of suck up his warmth (wow, does that sound dirty .. heh).

So, to recap:
1.) I haven't saved any more money. But ...
2.) I didn't spend any that I have, even though it's been a bad month
3.) I like to "tip" at honor-system farm stands
4.) I'm cheap and self-delusional when it comes to the gas bill
5.) I have fun crafting "creepy spa ad guy" finger puppets for friends and ... ah. Long story. But yes, I did make finger puppets.

I think this requires a song:

(Gilligan's Island)

Sit right back and I'll tell my tale
Of a creepy spa ad guy
He lurks in bathtubs near the shore
(Or so the ads imply)

You go in for some pampering,
Perhaps a hot tub soak
Hark! What sneaks through the bubbles there?
This greasy, grasping bloke. ( ... greasy, grasping bloke)

Our laughter was uneasy
As we mocked his spooky stare,
We made it a point to inspect our tubs
To be sure he wasn't there ( ... be sure he wasn't there)

We stayed away from any spas, 'cause he seemed sort of sly -
He might turn up as the towel guy
He could be a masseur
It's perhaps enough to put you off spas at all -
Creepy spa ad guy!

I fancy myself Madam Curie. Or Martha Stewart. Or something.

2006-09-29T13:10:00.000-04:00

Slow drain? Fruit flies circling the kitchen sink? Looks like it's time for the Brady Bunch Volcano solution! (Or BBV, as it's known in some quarters.)

Well, really it's more like the vinegar/baking soda solution, but it's so much more fun to pull a '70s sitcom into the equation, dontcha think? Besides, who knew that clearing drains could be such fun?

I guess that it's pretty common knowledge that if you dump some baking soda into the drain, then follow up with a little vinegar, you'll end up with crazy, fizzy awesomeness, but it's a relatively new discovery for me. Yeah, I could cloak this observation in a profound commitment to the environment and a lofty attempt to oust caustic chemicals from my home, but I won't lie. I just like playing mad scientist with the bathroom sink.

So why bother to write about it? No reason really, except that it's my awkward segue into my latest foray into prairie housekeeping.

I blame it all on Amazon's "Super Saver" deal; that is, if you order more than $25.00 worth of certain goods, Amazon will ship your order for free. It all began with the innocent purchase of a flannel duvet cover, and, before I knew it, I'd included a copy of The Little House Cookbook with my order. Please don't fool yourself into thinking that I'm some kind of culinary genius; I mean, I'm more like the Countess of Cup-O-Soup. However, even for devotees of *ahem* squeeze cheese and off-brand Triscuits, this book, written by Barbara M. Walker, is a great read.

The roast suckling pig and rye'n'injun bread, however, still remain unbaked. Shocking. I know.

Still, I think it would be fun to try a few of the things in the book. From reading it, I gather that the tastes and textures of the foods are very different from the things we're familiar with today. I also like to think that I'd get an appreciation for the day-to-day pioneer experience. If I take the time to create "Long Winter" bread sans the convenience of my breadmaker, I might have more appreciation for just how difficult the Long Winter really was. I may even try grinding up some of the grain in an antique coffee grider that I own ... although, to be honest, I suspect my enthusiasm will dim after a batch of two. Or even a spin or two of the crank. Heh.

I mean, if nothing else, it would be interesting, right? Yep, I'll keep telling myself that. I'll repeat it as a mantra while an ill-conceived attempt at sourdough starter begins to grow like the Blob, devouring both my cat and the local diner. Interesting. An experiment. Hoo doggies!

What especially caught my fancy? Vinegar. There's a recipe for creating my own vinegar. In fact, this is a rather important one to try, as vinegar was a staple, and modern store-bought vinegar has been pasteurized so it won't work properly with a number of the recipes. So, yes, I am considering becoming a vinegar alchemist. Who doesn't? I figure I'll either create a tasty garnish or a smelly, fermenting apple-core bomb. Only time will tell, I suppose.

At any rate, I could dump any shameful fermented outcome down the drain .... and test the limits of that Brady Bunch Volcano effect.

Days until trip: 291
Money saved: $245

Philaphobia

2006-09-21T10:01:00.000-04:00

I have a phobia.

Now, I know that we all have our fears. Heights. The dark. Spiders. Some folks are terrified to cross bridges, and others can be thrown into panic at the very notion of a snake. I'm freaked out by some very normal things, too, such as lightning, large bugs, commitment and brown socks. My crazy, irrational fear, however, is this: I'm terrified of Philadelphia. Specifically, I live in fear of having to drive through it.

Sure, the city of brotherly love never did anything to me. After all, I've only really visited there twice, despite its proximity to where I live. However, I've traveled through it countless times, because it stands between my place of residence and the Jersey Shore. What this means is that I need to drive through it whenever heading to my beloved Cape May or other shore points. Well, I suppose I could circumvent it if I really tried, but I'd be adding hours to the already tiresome trip. So ... Philadelphia it is.

I'd forgotten the panic that the drive inspires until I traveled to Avalon, NJ last week for a long-overdue vacation. Hoping to avoid the hordes and masses, I departed from Scranton at 3:30 am. At first, the drive was pleasant - I had the Turnpike to myself as I listened to long-forgotten tunes on the middle-of-the-night radio broadcasts (do they ever play "Timothy" any time other than at 4:15 am?) and smoked too many cigarettes. Sure, it was a little foggy, but the ride wasn't bad. I relished the space-age feeling of shooting through the Lehigh Tunnel before dawn. I liked sensing the flattening of the mountains as I headed southward, and having to yawn frequently to pop my ears. However, once I began to see indicators that Philly was creeping up ahead, my bowels began to tighten.

That, in a nutshell, is what that city does to me: it causes intestinal distress (as my mother would delicately put it). I actually had an, er .. attack once while traveling on the Schuylkill Expressway, necessitating a harried pullover and a search for any open McDonald with an functioning restroom. Okay, that's probably faaar too much information, but you get the picture. My innards roll like the mighty Mississip. At best, I get through that city as quickly as I can, white-knuckling the steering wheel and muttering shitdamnshitdamnshitdamn through clenched teeth.

Why this terror? I really don't know. I've driven through New York City, Boston and other major cities with nary a twitch. In fact, I tend to find the quickened pace and the challenge exhilarating. I've never even come close to a car accident in any Philadelphia treks, so that's not the source of panic. The most awful part is that it never gets any easier or less frightening for me, no matter how many times I do it. I sometimes think I might die there on Route 76 as a victim of a fright-induced heart attack or stroke, the worst part being that I'll most likely soil myself in the process.

Thank God the word "phobia" starts with a "ph" or I'd be forced to get all cutesy about my ... phear.

Interestingly, I turned to my old friend Roget while writing this because, well ... there are only so many readily-available words with which to express true horror. On of the given synonyms for fear is "unholy dread", which, I think, sums up the sensation quite nicely. Unholy dread, indeed.

At any rate, I had a wonderful time on my vacation. I spent plenty of time in Cape May, natch. I visited Cold Spring and saw a Revolutionary War encampment complete with the firing of cannons. I rented a bike and explored Avalon and Stone Harbor. I shopped too much and ate far too much fried food and saltwater taffy. Best of all, I spent a week with my best friend and her family, all of whom I love dearly. It was a wonderful week.

The trip back? Hordes and masses in spades. Bleh. Yuck. Cringe. Shudder. At least I was able to somewhat keep my wits about me. Or my shits, as the case may be.

Days until trip: 299
Money saved: $220.00

The Millinery-Industrial Complex

2006-09-06T13:57:00.000-04:00

Boy howdy! We got us a sunbonnet!

Funny how things work. I looked for the bonnet. I craved some more travel stuff. I paced, I whined. I pissed and moaned. Then today - just when I was really feeling at loose ends - my mailbox contained untold riches! Well, all right. Okay. Maybe not untold riches. Rather, a Travel South Dakota! book (A book! With a command for a title!) and a spiffy manila envelope from the Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Society. It made my day, it really did.

So, natch, I immediately tried on the bonnet. It fit! It even looked rather fetching. I'd originally decided to order a red bonnet because I thought that it would stand out in pictures and even seem a little sillier than, say, a pink or lavender one. Now I'm glad I got it in red because of the patented H.A.R.D. B.A.R.F.Y.* theory.

(*This stands for "Had A Rotten Day? Buy Anything Red For Yourself!". I'll credit my mother as the wise soul who introduced me to this simple theory, and it's served me well over the years. It works like this: basically, if you're having a rough time of things, spring for something for yourself and make it something bright red. It doesn't necessarily involve much cash - the red pick-me-up could be as simple as a 99-cent tube of lipstick or even a cherry freezer pop. All that matters is that it be something red and something you don't buy/see/do every day. I mean, red is the color of confidence! Of panache! By motivating my miserable self to change the course of a somewhat unpleasant day, I can often rearrange my state of mind. And ... well, it's also my rationalization behind the burgeoning Scarlet-hued Fiestaware collection ... butanyway ...)

This can only mean one thing: time to fire up the camera! Just think - I'll be able to show myself in all my prairie glory on this very blog! I'm very nearly getting the vapors from the excitement of it all.

Days until trip: 307
Money saved: $245.00

A Simple Twist of ... Plates? Or: Our Heroine Soothes Her Impatience With Dinnerware

2006-08-30T19:10:00.000-04:00

I'll huff, and I'll puff, and ..... dammitI'moutof patiencewhere'smygoddamsunbonnet?! Grrr.

*ahem*

As you can probably guess, I've not yet received my bonnet. The slow trickle of travel brochures also seems to have ground to a halt. I got information from the Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Society (yay!) and from the South Dakota Department of Tourism (many thanks!). That's all. What I want to know is this: who the hell does Minnesota think it is? Denying me. Playing hard to get. Pulling some sort of mystery act. Sheesh.

I was so disappointed and heartbroken that I built myself a sod house in my backyard and subsisted entirely on radishes and my own bitter tears. Nah - I lie. In all honesty, my computer decided to act up, and I've had no internet access for nearly a week. I suppose the timing wasn't too bad, as I've really not had much to report. Besides, I used the down time to indulge my passion for Fiestaware and visited the nearest outlet ... not once, but twice! Ole! Heh.

Days until trip: 314
Money saved: $240.00

A La Carte

2006-08-25T08:51:00.000-04:00

No sunbonnet yet. Also, no more travel brochures. *sigh*

Lately, I've been thinking about doing things solo. I've gotten adept at going places alone in the last few years. Mainly, it's because I've been with a guy who really doesn't like to do much. In addition, I'm at an age where most of my friends have recently become moms, so they're far less available. As a result, I've begun to get rather comfortable with going to the movies alone or going out to eat by myself. I've become good at it.

I know. I'm treating solitude as a skill. You know what? I think it is.

We all do stuff by ourselves; tasks like grocery shopping and walking the dog are often done without accompaniment, and nobody thinks twice about it. Still, some other things are really group activities, and, initially, it feels strange to go it alone. The first time I went to the movies by myself, it was to see Immortal Beloved; I lucked out that time, because I found a theatre full of other chicks like me whose boyfriends/husbands had no interest in a historical romance about Beethoven. In fact, I met a few of the other moviegoers before the film started, and we had a good time making small talk and joking around. Since then, I've occasionally gone to see several films by myself, the most recent being The Devil Wears Prada. I kinda like going to the movies by myself, actually.

Still, I wonder - what is it that makes me feel a little odd the first time I try something sans accompaniment? Is it that I'm afraid that there's an unspoken indication that nobody likes me enough to come along? I know that this isn't the case, and - really - why should I care what any strangers might think? Odd. Maybe it's just me ... a lack of confidence or something.

I do wonder, though, if there isn't a widespread fear of being alone - the sheer number of people on cell phones sometimes makes me sure of it. For example, if I felt strange about waiting for a table alone at a restaurant, the simple act of conversing publicly on my phone would be a social signal that, indeed, I'm a vital and beloved person. It would also keep me from truly being alone, because I'd still be interacting with someone in my social circle - know what I mean?

Ah well. Just my thinks.

Since I'm already wildly off my usual topics, I'd like to mention that the downgrade of Pluto from planet status is rather sad. Poor Pluto! I composed a lament (sorry, Billy Joel!) ...

Always a Planet
( Always a Woman)

You made no big stinks, if you did I just missed 'em
A small number nine in a big solar system
Just doing your thing, unencumbered and free -
You may be downgraded,
But you're always a planet to me

You're just rocks and ice, so I know you won't melt
As you rotate around next to the Kuiper belt
A victim of the whims of astronomy -
Remember, dear Pluto -
You're always a planet to me

Oh - they're rescinded your name
You're a planet no more
Just some lump in the fog
Oh - if I call out your name
I guess that it now refers
To some dumb Disney dog

Another concern that is leaving me speechless:
My Very Educated Mother Just Sent Us No Pizzas!
That mnemonic trick's now an antiquity -
But, pizza aside,
You are always a planet to me.

Days until trip: 319
Money saved: $210.00

A Woman Corned ...

2006-08-22T08:31:00.000-04:00

I really, really want to make some, uh, corny jokes about today's discovery, but I'll try to restrain myself: The Corn Palace. How cool is that?

Unfortunately, the building is actually constructed of concrete (the outside is completely covered/decorated in maize). When I saw the pictures of it in my brochures, my heart leapt at the possibility that it might be a whole building made entirely of corn. Sure, go ahead and tell me that such a thing would be structurally impossible (never mind unhygenic), but that reality would fall on deaf ears. I mean, the physics of Tinker Toys is beyond me.

This thing of beauty is in Mitchell, South Dakota. Which is, according to my shaky calculations, is about 70 miles from De Smet. I'd really like to check it out.

A friend of mine helped me to concoct a crazy scheme. It all began when I decided that I wanted to add a picture of myself to this blog. Since I really don't photograph well, I asked her to help me get a picture that wouldn't scare puppies and small children. We joked about it, drank a little wine, and then decided that any photo really ought to show me wearing a sunbonnet, all bad-ass prairie-style. Then we took it a step farther: maybe we ought to begin a small collection of pictures in which I sport one. I mean, pictures are pictures, but who could resist pics of some random gal in a bonnet? Of course, the notion evolved into the idea that there ought to be a sort of introductory travelogue that shows me in my natural environment wearing it: in the supermarket, near various Scranton landmarks, at my jobs ... you get the picture (heh). After all, Ma in the Little House books was always on Laura's case to wear hers, why shoud I be any different? The evening culminated with the online order of a red sunbonnet. So we'll see where that goes.

So, kids, what have we learned today? Well, that there's a Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. Oh - and that Jen has no shame. To the chagrin of ZZ Top:

Red Sunbonnet
(Cheap Sunglasses)

When you want to journey westward and have a little fun,
The first thing to consider is protection from the sun
Ma'd call you "dark as an injun" if you didn't get right on it
And order yourself a red sunbonnet
Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

You can bust that bonnet out and make random photo ops
Wear it to the vet when the dog goes for his shots
On forays to the bank, as you make some deposits -
You'll knock the tellers out with a red sunbonnet
Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

Wear that prairie sucker as you check into hotels
Wear it on the plane, and in the rental car as well
What subtlety you have? Methinks now's the time to pawn it:
Every photo's better with a red sunbonnet
Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

Days until trip: 322
Money saved: $197.00

Oh! Prairie! My love ... holds on, holds on.

2006-08-21T13:57:00.000-04:00

But you shoulda' been gone -
Long ago, far away
You shoulda' been gone
After Mr. Sunshine had his say ...

Grrr. Brr. Bleh. My delight at receiving information about my trip has been dampened. Somebody thinks my idea to roam the prairie is stupid. Somebody got outright mean about making fun of it. But that's okay in the end, I guess. Somebody just won't get any ice cream. Heh.

Among the treasures which did arrive this weekend, I got a rather large highway map of South Dakota. Which, I suppose, is a good thing, considering that no local bookstore had any information whatsoever about the region. There were books about Ohio. There were plenty of guides detailing Chicago. And then .... nothing. If I didn't know better, I'd assume that there's some sort of vast chasm between the Midwest and Vegas. It just surprised me, somehow, that there was nothing to be had about, say, Mount Rushmore. Not even so much as a flimsy map in the so-called travel section! Sheesh.

My car has requested that I mention its delight that I finally, finally emptied out all the change from its various nooks and crannies (read: drink holders). Twelve bucks! Who knew?

Days until trip: 323
Money Saved: $197.00

Mail Call

2006-08-19T21:23:00.000-04:00

The goodies have begun to arrive! I received packets from both the Laura Ingalls Memorial Society and the South Dakota board of tourism. I'm a happy girl.

Send Me Some Crap
(Live and let Die)

When you are planing a trip to the prairie -
At first, you think .. hey, whenever stuff comes ...
(you once were zen, you once were zen, you once were zen)
But in this South Dakota mindset that I'm nursing -
Impatience gets a bad rap -
Send me my crap!
Send me my crap!
Send me my crap!

Why blow a cork anyway?
It's almost a year away!
I guess I need to feel
Like the whole thing's going to be real -

I used to be very laid back
(at least, I think; at least, I think; at least, I think)
But in my ever-changing plans to see the prairie
My patience cannot endure-
Send my travel brochres!
Travel brochures!
Travel brochures!
Travel brochures!

Days until trip:325
Money saved: $185.00

Plains, Planes & Automobiles

2006-08-17T09:29:00.000-04:00

Wow - this page sure is green, innit? I try to tell myself that I chose this template because it carries faint echoes of Wright's Prairie style of architecture/embellishment. To be honest, however, I chose it simply because it was a different pattern that that used on the blogs of friends (I am a rugged individualist! I am!). I also find light print on a dark background a little tough on the peepers, so this template was the default choice. If nothing else, it's very, eh ... green. Ah well. I suppose there are worse things.

Again, with the airlines. I keep filling in theoretical flight dates to come up with inexpensive flights. I'm finding that my best choice may be to fly from Allentown, PA to Minneapolis. So far, I've found a roundtrip airfare for $334.00. Since my magic 8-ball won't reveal what the airfares will be when I book my flight (Dammit! I keep getting "try again"), I'm going to budget $500.00. I asked my brother if he'd be willing to drive me to the airport so that I can avoid paying for long-term parking there. He looked at me blanky for a moment, then said he'd really have to check his schedule. Heh. Wise-ass, that one.

The car rentals are a bit sticky, but the most inexpensive estimate I could find was $19.95/day for a compact/economy car. I recall from past rentals that there are all sorts of fun charges, taxes, subcharges, excises and a papal dispensation involved. For my rough budget, I'm assuming $30.00/day, so that's $210.00 for seven days. I'll figure a gas budget once I've got more of a real itinerary.

Thus far:
$500.00 for airfare
$210.00 for car rental
... which creates a grand total of $710.00. Whee! Math is fun!

I think I'd like to shoot for the week of July 11- July 18. Of course, the plans may change as I look into different attractions, but I'm going to use that week (Wednesday - Wednesday) as my ideal time frame.

Now if only the US Postal Service would bring me all my prairie goodies. I just know that my postman is holding out on me. I'll bet he's hoarding the "Discover South Dakota!" and "Minnesota: Magic and Memories" brochure packets; I mean, they've got to be riveting white-knuckle reading for anyone lucky enough to get their mitts on 'em, right? Right.

Here's a little ditty (with my sincerest apologies to Paul Simon ... and Julio):

Roaming Spinster Loose on the Prairie
(Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard)

Some July night, I'll catch the cheapest flight that'll take me to Minnesota
I'll see what's what, watch a pageant or such, and then go on to South Dakota
In a rental car, in rental car
In a rental car, 'cause it's kinda far
My boyfriend sighs, then he rolls his eyes
Every time my trip gets mentioned
He might tut-tut or declare me nuts ...
It won't sway my prairie intentions.

I'm on my way, though not sure where I'm going
I'm on my way, I'm saving some cash, mostly jars of change
Goodbye Scranton - Queen of the Rust Belt
Roaming spinster out on the prairie
Roaming spinster out on the prairie

It'll take me a year to get my ass in gear
And rack up some legal tender
So I'll blather and blog these inane monologues
It's a crazy prairie bender!
Well, I'm on my way, but not sure where I'm going
I'm on my way, I might even wear a sunbonnet!
Goodbye Scranton - Queen of the Rust Belt
There'll be a roaming spinster loose on the prairie
Another roaming spinster loose on the prairie

Days until trip: 327
Amount saved: $161.00

I'll take "Southern Minnesota" for $200, Alex ...

2006-08-15T23:45:00.000-04:00

I made a few more calls to gather information for my trip today. If I play my cards right, I could get to check out Walnut Grove, Minnesota. The Ingalls family spent time in the area, some of it living in a dugout - literally, a home made from a cave dug into a hillside (<- preposition-palooza). Now, I've managed to live in some crappy-assed apartments in my time, but, sheesh. I suspect this'll put manners on me. The original Ingalls dugout has collapsed (not on the family, of course .. well, at least, not entirely), but the site and surrounding area have been preserved. Like De Smet, the town of Walnut Grove presents a pageant during several July weekends each summer.

Yes. I said pageant. To be honest, I'm rather enthralled by the notion. I suspect it's more of a play, since it seems to include dialogue and doesn't appear to take place behind a scrim curtain that sweeps back during a stirring eight-part rendition of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus, revealing a crystal-clear scene of a manger in Bethlehem and .... yeah. My Catholic roots are showing. Then again, maybe the pageant does include such a moving crescendo - I guess I'll only know if I see it in person. And, truth be told, who am I to define "pageant"?! So here's my thinks: fly into Minneapolis mid-week. Drive to Walnut Grove, MN. Spend Wednesday through Friday there. Check out pageant on Friday evening. Get the show on the road to De Smet on Saturday afternoon. Catch De Smet pageant on Saturday or Sunday evening. Can I express my glee at the very mention of Walnut Grove? I mean, this was the town in which the Little House on the Prairie TV series was set. Sure, television's prairie was mountainous and surprisingly snow-less (aka California), but - come on! There's a definite '70s cheese factor involved here. I loved that show. In fact, I still do.

I received payback on a small loan I'd given last week - $50.00. I've also got a small can of change to deposit. Since neither have been put in the bank yet, my cash remains the same.

Days until trip: 320-350
Cash saved: $100.00

Westward Ho!

2006-08-14T12:16:00.000-04:00

Or should that be .... Westward, 'ho?

You see, I'm a gal with a dream. I don't want to find a cure for cancer. I could care less about amassing a fortune. Eternal youth and ravishing beauty aren't really high on my list of priorities. My dream? To go to South Dakota. Specifically, I want to go to De Smet, South Dakota.

I'll pause here while you snicker and chortle. Go ahead, it's okay. I'm quickly getting used to that reaction. My boyfriend reacted splendidly: "Well, Jen, most normal people save and plan to go to places like Cancun. South Dakota? My ass." Still, I'm undeterred.

I decided that today's as good a day as any to start a little record of my adventure. I opened a savings account this morning to finance my trip so I'm already $100. into this. I spent the last few days contacting various Departments of Tourism and requesting information. I've used hypothetical dates on various travel sites to come up with flight and car rental rates (Dance, Hotwire! Dance!).

You see, I was hooked on the Little House books as a child. I recently bought the entire series as an adult and reread them. Man, those things are like crack! I mean, you think to yourself: Okay. I'll just sample a little Farmer Boy for fun, just to see what it's like. The next thing you know, you're pale and shaking as you crawl into Borders to pick up a copy of By the Banks of Plum Creek. You know you've hit bottom when you forgo the light bill so that you can get your crazy paws on These Happy Golden Years.

Okay. I exaggerate. But only a little.

At any rate, I reread the series in its entirety and thought to myself, "Self, wouldn't it be really cool to check out some of these places that Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about?" Just for fun, I googled around a bit, and I found out that I can, indeed, visit the Ingalls homestead. In fact, I can camp on it! Suddenly, it occurred to me that I really could go there. I mean, there's no reason why I couldn't - I'm a single, childless, 35-year-old woman (spinster), and my responsibilities are few. Sure, I'll need to pack up my (obligatory, since I'm a spinster) cats and ship 'em to a kennel, but aside from that ....

So I've begun to save. Tomorrow, I'm cashing in my change jars and adding that to my total. I'm planning on going in July, 2007, and I'm planning on going alone. In fact, I somehow think it's important that I do go alone - (upcoming navel-gazing in 3 ..2 ..1 ..) I keep meaning to do things in my life that are important to me, and I keep letting things get in my way. Things like disapproving boyfriends, procrastination, and self-doubt rear their ugly heads, and as a result, I let myself miss out on so much. I just want to sort of even up the ledger, you know? Bravely do something simply because I want to and because I'm able to do it myself. (/navel-gazing)

At any rate, here's a little haiku summary *snerk*:

Crazy as it seems,
I dream of South Dakota
I'll go there next year

Bright lights of Scranton
So long! This spinster's going
To see some prairie

Days until trip: between 321 - 351 (methinks)
Cash saved: $100.00