let's talk about glasses.

I’ve had glasses for as long as I can remember. Specifically? Since I was five years old. I think I got my glasses within the first few weeks of kindergarten (a note from the teacher about me pitifully squinting at the blackboard comes to mind), and I certainly had them in time for school pictures. 

My cute phase lasted just long enough
for Lifetouch to take this photo.

Red has always been my favorite color, likely because my dad drilled the superiority of red tractors to green ones into his children from the day we were born. I picked out my first pair of glasses based solely on the flecks of red in their frames. No matter that they took up half my face: they were kind of sort of RED!

With this new pair of glasses, I discovered my one and only allergy: squishy nose pads. Glasses only come with the hard plastic nose pads now, but once upon a time, you could get these weird squishy ones that were supposed to be more comfortable. Within hours of getting my new glasses, the sides of my nose (right where the nose pads landed) became red and swollen. Back to the eye doctor we went. We traded the squishy nose pads for the hard plastic ones, and that was that. What a lame allergy.

I was the first kid in my class to get glasses, and it seemed like it took FOREVER for anyone else to join me in the nerd camp. My friends Sarah and Allison eventually were saddled with glasses, too, and I was so glad that I was no longer the only myopic dork in my circle of elementary school friends.

I think my early acquisition of glasses played a major part in me being really good at not losing stuff. Money meant almost nothing to me when I first got my glasses, but I understood that my responsibility for these wire frames was not to be taken lightly. In the very early days, I could wear my glasses to school and immediately remove them upon arriving home. When that was the case, I made sure I placed them somewhere I’d remember, but out of harm’s way. Sadly, it wasn’t long before my vision deteriorated enough for me to have to wear my glasses full-time. Poor vision and all, I still had swimming lessons and summers on Lake Poinsett and sleepovers and all sorts of potentially dangerous situations for my glasses, so I stored them carefully at all times, figuring that the loss of my glasses would result in the loss of the life and limb as well.

So I have yet to lose a pair of glasses (cheapy gas station sunglasses included). I have also yet to inflict real damage on a pair of glasses: if you remember from A Christmas Story, Ralphie sums it up perfectly when he says that “nothing brings such swift and terrible retribution on a kid as a pair of busted glasses.” I never experienced said retribution, but I was not about to find out. The only time my glasses sustained any harm was the time in PE when I got hit the face during dodgeball (reason number 252 why I hated PE, but that’s a story for another time).

Over the approximate two decades (holy shit, two decades?!) I have had corrective vision, I have had six pairs of glasses… many of them horribly dorky. I began, of course, with those kindergarten glasses that made me look like some sort of an insect. When I was eight or nine, I decided it was time for an upgrade and thusly switched to my round John Lennon glasses.

Seventh grade. On the bright side,
NO ONE looks cool in seventh
grade, so it's not just me.

I was totally jealous of my classmates and all their super-cool clip-on sunglasses, so I made sure my John Lennon glasses came equipped with clip-ons. They had the big bar across the top to hold them in place, and I thought I was really cool… until everyone else started getting contacts. I wasn’t ready to touch my own eyeballs on a daily basis, so when I was thirteen, I picked out a pair of blue frames with MAGNETIC clip-ons! YES, MAGNETIC! It didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off, and I was kicking myself for not taking my parents up on their offer of contacts sooner.

Ninth grade, and PS: WTF is going
on with my hair?!

Three years later, I was the proud owner of super-strength contact lenses. Life was SO GOOD! I could go swimming and still see what was going on, and I could wear real sunglasses for the first time in more than a decade. Plus, it was a whole lot easier to put on mascara… not that I wore mascara until well after I got contacts, but let’s just say that I never wore it with glasses because it was too hard to see what I was doing. Certainly not because I was just lazy and fairly apathetic about looking decent. Nope, I’m sure that wasn’t it.

 As you know, even if you have contacts, you need a pair of glasses around so you can see well enough not to crash into walls after you’ve taken your contacts out for the night. I kept my metallic blue frames until I was a freshman in college, at which point I upgraded to my first-ever pair of plastic frames. 

Circa 2006. Don't ask why I'm in James's coat.

How trendy was I? My old blue glasses were more like dark secret glasses that I hoped no one saw when I snuck to the shared dorm bathroom every morning, but with these new glasses, I could actually wear them in PUBLIC! That, of course, meant less wear-and-tear on my contacts. More importantly, it meant that I could get up just a tiny bit later and still make it to my 9.15 class. Go me.

I met my now-fiancée James on the very first day of college. He was one of those lucky souls blessed with decent vision, and he didn’t get glasses until the summer after our sophomore year. We weren’t dating at this point, but I’m pretty sure James’s glasses played a major role in us getting together. Turns out that a man in glasses is far preferable to a man without glasses in Calla World. I swooned. (A few years later, when James was toying with the idea of getting contacts, I practically begged him not to. Yes, it was pathetic, and no, he never got contacts.)

During my senior year of college, I asked for a new pair of glasses for Christmas – partly because I was ready for new frames, and partly because my time on my parents’ good insurance was running out. I selected a snappy pair of red frames (remember how I like red?). What I really wanted was a pair of glasses without frames at the bottom (picture), but my prescription is so strong that it just wasn’t possible. With such a strong prescription, the lenses have to be pretty thick (NERD ALERT), and my lenses are way too thick not to be held in at the bottoms. So I settled for a very thin wire holding my lenses in place, and I proceeded with looking like a librarian for four years.

We were walking home in a blizzard. Forgive my facial expression.

I got these new glasses over winter break, so they were pretty new when I returned to college for my final semester. I had been working at a little coffee shop since the beginning of the school year, and they were remarkably flexible with class schedules. That semester, my classes began at 1030 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and 8am on Tuesdays and Thursdays – the only 8am class in my entire college career. My days were pretty full, as I was taking 20 credits, playing in the jazz and concert bands, working on-campus, and working for the newspaper, aka trying to squeeze every last bit of college experience out of my remaining semester before being thrown into the real world. Anyway, there wasn’t a lot of spare time for my coffee house job. My bosses scheduled me on evenings and weekends when they could, and they managed to find three shifts a week that were all mine: the opening shift on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I was to be at the coffee house at 6am to have it open for business by 7am, and I would stay there until 10 o’clock when it was time for me to make my way to class.

I have never been an early riser, so this was pretty tough on me. I wasn’t about to get up any earlier than I absolutely had to, so that meant I would forgo my contacts and wear glasses. I did the same for my 8am class. I would wear my glasses for the first part of every day and switch into my contacts when I had time to go home in between classes. Since I was in college and couldn’t go to bed on time like a responsible person, I spent most of my final semester being tired. Therefore, in my primitive brain, red glasses = tired. After that grueling semester, every time I wore my red glasses, I Pavlovian-dogged myself into being tired.

So that’s why I almost never wore those glasses outside of the house after 2009. Unless I was sick, I wore my contacts every day, whether I was going anywhere or not. Wearing those glasses out and about sort of made me feel less than presentable, like I had just rolled out of bed (as I did for so many of my coffee house shifts). Silly, yes, but that’s just how it was.

2013 rolled around, and I was ready for some new frames. I still don’t like to get up any earlier than I have to, and how delightful would it be not to have to put my contacts in once in a while? WAY delightful, that’s what it would be. So James and I headed to the mall, picked through the sale frames (as I didn’t want to spend more than a month’s rent on glasses, thank you very much), and settled on a pair that is less librarian, more awesome (and hopefully doesn’t teeter over into hipster territory).

Whee!

I’ve had these frames for about a month now, and James is completely smitten with them. They’ve grown on me, thanks in no small part to their ability to hide how thick (NERD) my lenses are. Plus, I think they make me look smarter, and there are certainly days when I need all the help I can get.

let's talk about The Notebook.

Valentine's Day is upon us. I have absolutely nothing against Valentine's Day: any holiday dedicated to eating candy is ok in my book. However, I'm not ok with the influx of chick flicks around this time of year. I've told you before about how I am not a romantic person, so chick flicks are never on my to-do list. Yet I'm going to review one of them for you.

As you may recall, the last movie review I wrote brought to light the greatest bad movie of all time (The Room, that is). Now, I am pleased to bring you the worst “good” movie of all time. Yes, folks, I’m talking about The Notebook.

If I so loathe movies such as this, you may wonder why I watched it in the first place. My friend Bob and I went to see it at the Bryant, SD movie theatre just to find out what all the fuss was about (and also because rural South Dakota is severely lacking in weekend activities for 17-year-olds who don't care for illegally obtained Bud Light). Bob and I both had a really tough time holding ourselves together... not because it was such a touching story and we couldn't contain our tears, but because it was so terrible that we had to do our best not to audibly gag. The rest of the theatre-goers must've been cut from a different cloth than us: I'm pretty sure Bob and I had the only dry eyes in the place. We stood up, declared our evening wasted, and went out to do bigger, better things. (Or maybe not, who knows.)

I realize that by proclaiming my feelings about The Notebook, I may put looks of disbelief and horror on many a female face. How could I not just adore such a beautiful love story? Please. It’s not that I’m cynical: just realistic.

Now, I refer to The Notebook as a “good” movie because it’s nowhere near the same league as The Room. The Notebook was made by a bunch of professionals, while The Room was basically some guy with a camera and a crazy idea. Unlike The Room, the acting in The Notebook is not particularly bad, and the plot more or less makes sense. So if all that other stuff is ok, what’s my problem with this movie?

First of all, let me mention that this movie is a long and painful 124 minutes. Who in their right mind would want to sit through a LOVE STORY that long? The plot is also a major deterrent. To put it simply, it makes me gag. I know I said that the plot makes sense, but that doesn’t make it any less terrible. It’s full to the brim of predictable “twists” that are supposed to warm your heart, but only produce excessive eye-rolling on my end. I’m going to give away some of the film’s aforementioned plot twists in this synopsis, so if you haven’t seen the movie/read the equally sappy book by Nicholas Sparks (and genuinely want to), I suggest you stop reading this article and acquire the movie/book. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

The Notebook is one of those films with parallel plots set in different time periods. We follow young Noah and Allie in the 1940s, and old Duke and Miss Hamilton in the present. Most of us can guess just what is up with that.

I’ll start with the youngsters. Of course, this part of the story is set primarily in the 1940s South, location and time period of all things romantic. Noah (played by Ryan Gosling - only redeemable by his presence in the "hey girl" meme)...

 ...is the poor-but-happy-and-of-course-very-handsome young man who can’t convince the rich-but-unhappy-but-he-wants-her-anyway Allie (Rachel McAdams - all full of oddly-placed moles and shrieking giggles) to go out with him. He does. They fall in love in approximately thirty seconds. He teaches her to be spontaneous and learn to relax. Allie’s rich parents don’t like him, so they send her away to somewhere rich people go.

All of this is very run-of-the-mill love story. After all, didn’t we see much of the same in Titanic?

They were WAY more interesting.

I must also mention that Noah is an insufferable cheeseball. Towards the beginning, he follows Allie around and spouts crap like “I had to be next to you,” “I was drawn to you,” and similar garbage. I don’t know about you, but this is certainly not the way to my heart. I’m sure that those who love and cherish this movie and all its pickup lines would disagree, but I’d say this is the way to a restraining order.

Anyway, back to the 1940s. So Allie’s at some fancy house in some fancy neighborhood on the East (where romantic things DON’T happen - that belongs in the South, you know). Noah writes her letters. Allie’s mother hides them. Noah joins the Army JUST IN TIME for World War II (primarily so girls could swoon over Ryan Gosling in a uniform). He comes back, buys a house (the SAME ONE that he and Allie ALMOST had an overemotional sex scene in years before - clever, huh?), fixes it up, sees Allie kissing some other guy, grows a beard, and becomes a hermit… like you do.

This “other guy” of Allie’s is some soldier she fixed up back in her Army nurse days. He’s rich = Allie’s parents love him = instant engagement. Allie finds a picture of Noah and his house (while she’s trying on her wedding dress, of course) and goes to visit him, and they have all sorts of good clean country fun (such as rowing a boat through goose-infested waters). Then: “WHY DIDN’T YOU WRITE ME?!” “I WROTE YOU EVERY DAY!” Pause, then sex. Of course, Allie’s mother finds her. They chat. Mom had the same experience (loved poor, married rich). Mom gives Allie the wad of old letters. Allie chooses Noah.

Switch to the old people. Duke and Miss Hamilton are in a nursing home. They’re pals. He reads her the story of Allie and Noah. Turns out that the book is about THEM! OMG! Turns out Noah and Allie are in a nursing home and Allie has senile dementia. She wrote the story for Noah to read to her, and occasionally, she remembers what’s going on. So skip to the end of the movie. Noah sneaks out of his room and joins Allie in hers. She remembers him. They cuddle and then die. Yes, really.

So that’s the story of The Notebook in a rather large nutshell. A lot of stuff happens, that’s for sure. I can see how it appeals to some people - you just have to be the “right kind” of people. I am not the right kind.

Maybe I am a heartless jerk. But seriously, we’ve all seen this song and dance before. It’s the standard formula for tons of love movies, so why is this one so special? It must be the goose pond.

I wish they were man-eating geese.

The movie expects you to believe so much: money absolutely DOES NOT make you happy, good-looking cornballs like Noah just WON’T LET YOU GO no matter how mean you are, and true love never dies and conquers all - even senile dementia. But let me tell you, I’d much rather see it in a Disney movie. At least they have songs.

So happy Valentine's Day to each and every one of you! Now go out and watch a REAL love story.

That's what I'm talking about.

Bjorklundosophy, volume I.

Every family has their fair share of inside jokes. My family is certainly no exception. Over the years, we’ve (“we” being my mom, dad, brother, sister, and me) amassed quite a collection of them, most of them stemming from cribbage (behind mocking each other, cribbage is our second most popular family activity). Though most inside jokes tend to become stale, ours only get better with age. If they stick around long enough, they’re promoted from inside jokes to catchphrases. We’ve accumulated some really good ones, so for this top ten Tuesday, I’d like to share the ten best Tim/Brenda/Calla/Darrah/Mitch catchphrases. I hope you’re ready for this.

We kicked their ass!

An ass-kicking in progress.

This phrase is used primarily for cribbage victories, and the pronouns must be modified accordingly. However, “ass” never becomes “asses,” no matter how many asses are kicked in whatever game we’re playing. It’s a collective ass, I guess. We use this expression anytime a game is won, but we’re especially enthusiastic if it’s a narrow victory. This particular phrase is all about the inflection, which is a bit hard to describe. Next time you see me, I’ll happily give you a demo – bonus points if it’s while we’re playing a game and I actually kick your ass. However, unless it’s Trivial Pursuit we’re playing, chances are good that you’ll do the kicking.

My clothes are going out of style.

I have professed my family’s love for The Sandlot a number of times on this blog, and it holds as true today as it did all those other times I sang its praises (and you said, “she’s seriously talking about The Sandlot? AGAIN?!”). 

SO AWESOME.

We all love The Sandlot for its many fine qualities, but we love it most for its quotability. While we all quote from The Sandlot pretty frequently, there is one quote that surpasses them all: “My clothes are going out of style!” We say this when someone is taking a particularly long time to do something, like put their coat on or make a move in cribbage. This one is a two-parter, though: if someone says “my clothes are going out of style” to you, you must respond with “they already are!” It’s Sandlot gold.

Boo-freakin-hoo.

I’m not sure where this phrase came from, but we use it in response to someone who is complaining about something when the complaining is unmerited. For example, the five of us returned from a trip to Mexico not too long ago. My fiancée James remained in snowy South Dakota. When I came back, I was suffering from a terrible sunburn, and I was shedding my skin like a snake (gross, I know). When I whined about my sunburn – acquired in paradise while James languished in the chilly Midwest – James rightfully responded with “Boo-freakin-hoo.”

Cha-CHING!

This exclamation originated with cribbage as well: if you had a particularly good hand, you would should, “Cha-CHING!” This phrase has since seeped over into everyday life, mostly in regards to unexpected money: you get a surprise refund check from the electric company, you say “Cha-CHING!” You win a dollar from a scratch card, you say “Cha-CHING!” You find a quarter on the ground, you say “Cha-CHING!” No amount is too small for our cha-chings.

KMA.

KMA, as you’ve probably surmised, stands for “kiss my ass.” My family has no problem cursing at one another, but for some reason, that phrase has been immortalized as an acronym. Once again, we primarily use “KMA” for cribbage battles. When someone (cough DAD cough) gets particularly gloaty about a good cribbage hand, you look him dead in the eyes and say, “KMA.” It’s water off a duck, but still!

Son of a BITCH!

Much like “we kicked their ass,” this catchphrase is all about inflection. Remember that scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie gets the Little Orphan Annie secret decoder pin and has to lock himself in the bathroom to decode the super-secret message and it ends up saying “be sure to drink your Ovaltine”? And then he’s all disappointed and says “Ovaltine? A crummy commercial? Son of a BITCH!” We adopted that exact inflection from A Christmas Story, and it’s been serving us well for years.

Can you hear my hair turning white?

Nobody uses this phrase except for Dad, but he’s earned it over the years. My family loves to tell stories, especially when they’re at the expense of others, and especially ESPECIALLY when Dad’s the one on the receiving end of some grief. For example: the April Fool’s Day story (when I convinced my boyfriend whom no one liked to call Dad on April Fool’s Day and ask for my hand) is a tried-and-true classic, and we tell it any chance we get. The recollection of Dad spluttering and gasping like a dying fish while trying to let Hipster Boyfriend down easily is etched into our memories forever. Whenever anyone tells this story, Dad will look plaintively at the listener and say, “Can you hear my hair turning white?” Other stories that evoke this reaction include my creepy New Orleans landlord (where my roommate stuck a note under my door telling me to get out while I still can) and basically any story where his dumbass kids are doing something stupid (which happens more often that it should, probably).

Mom’s drunk again.

This is the newest addition to our list, but I have a really good feeling about it. We were in Cancun at the beginning of January, and aside from drinking mojitos, people-watching was our number-one hobby. Mitch, Dad, and I were floating around the pool one morning when we saw a 40-something woman – drink in hand – ask her 10-year-old son to hoist her out of the pool, as she was too drunk to do it herself (I know she was on vacation in Mexico, but seriously, it was only 10am). Her son dutifully lifted her out of the pool, and she proceeded to tip over onto her back like a turtle. Surprise, she couldn’t get up on her own, so her poor kid was summoned to scrape her off the ground and deposit her in a chair. I looked at Dad and Mitch and said, “That poor kid. ‘Mom’s drunk again.’” A few minutes later, the drunk mom’s male companion showed up, and they began some serious face-sucking… all while that kid sat nearby and looked like he was wishing for death. Of course, we were still watching all this, so Dad said, “Again, that poor kid… ‘Mom’s making out with her boyfriend again… where’s Dad when I need him?!’” This phrase traveled back to my own mother, who was definitely the least drunk mom at our resort. Anytime Mom said or did something goofy, we said, “Mom’s drunk again!” Of course, “Mom” can be exchanged for anyone doing something stupid, but it all started with some poor kid’s drunk mother.

Red flag!

These last two catchphrases are the Big Kahunas of the group, so pay attention. As you know, a red flag generally means stop what you’re doing. When we use the term “red flag,” we’re generally pointing out flaws in significant others. When our friends Chris and Rachel got married, Dad went so far as to craft tiny red flags out of red tape and toothpicks.

They loved the red flags!

There are really two kinds of red flags: the ones we talk about in front of your significant other, and the ones we don’t. James has collected more we-say-it-to-his-face red flags than anyone I know, so much that Mitch taped tiny red flags to James’s Christmas stocking this year. Some of James’s red flags have been temporary (he lost a red flag when he got rid of his Delta 88), and all the rest are minor enough that we’re not afraid to tell him about them (which I’m sure he totally appreciates). Everybody has red flags, even me (I know, I know, you thought I was perfect). Of course, our good qualities are the green flags, but those aren’t nearly as fun to talk about.

I’m not saying you ARE fat…

My friends, this is not only a top-ten catchphrase, but one of my family’s favorite Christmas stories of all time. It was Christmas (year?), and every year, my mom made a photo calendar for her mother: my grandma Lorraine. I love Grandma Lorraine to pieces, but she is not afraid to let you know just what she thinks. Out of all her children, my mom lives the closest, so she bears the brunt of Grandma’s sass. Anyway, Grandma got this photo calendar for Christmas, and Mom had included a picture of her and her niece, Alana. 

This picture is infamous.

Grandma took one look at that picture and said, “Brenda, you look fat in this picture.” My mom’s jaw dropped. “MOM!” she said incredulously. Grandma countered with, “I’m not saying you ARE fat; you just LOOK fat!” Everyone (save for Mom and Grandma) proceeded to die of laughter. This particular gem – courtesy of Grandma Lorraine – has kept us entertained for years, especially if someone sets themselves up by asking how they look. Mom thinks it’s funny now, and we love nothing more than to retell this story at Christmastime. Some families read “Twas the Night Before Christmas” and others read about baby Jesus. We tell the story of how Mom isn’t fat; she just looks fat… and everyone is filled with Christmas spirit!

-----

After this extra-special glimpse into my family dynamic, I bet you feel like a bona fide member of the family now. Bonus points if you use one (or all!) of these next time you see us!

that one time I tried to cook.

Once upon three years ago, I moved to Minneapolis.

Swoon!

For the first few (“few” = eight) pitiful months I lived in Minneapolis, I couldn’t wine and dine my way through the Twin Cities because of my acute lack of money. I worked two part-time jobs and had one unpaid 20-hour-a-week internship, so my schedule was packed to the brim. A couple of months after my internship ended (and a couple of months of searching unsuccessfully for a full-time job), one of my part-time jobs promoted me to full-time and I was (finally) making more than minimum wage. (!!!) These newly found riches (ha) allowed me to branch out from my diet of eggs and pasta (read: cheap things) and start going to restaurants. Life was good!

A number of my friends and relatives lived in/around Minneapolis as well, so it was always a pleasure to get together with someone (or a group of someones) for dinner. If you’re familiar with the Twin Cities, you know that the dining options are practically endless. Whatever culinary treat your little heart desires, chances are Minneapolis has it for you.

I can almost hear the restaurants calling out to me.

One of my frequent dining companions was a college friend named Haakon, who worked just a few miles away from me. We’d get together every couple of weeks for dinner, and there would always be wine and good conversation.

One spring day, Haakon and I made plans to get together, which brought up the inevitable question: where should we eat? Haakon – ever a fountain of helpful suggestions – said, “Well, why don’t you cook?”

Friends: I don’t cook. I just don’t. It’s not that I’m particularly bad at it… it’s just that I’m lazy and have no interest in trying. I am a breakfast food master (you want good waffles? come to me), and I can make boxed macaroni and cheese like a boss (not to brag, but I’m also really good at boxed cakes), but you won’t find me messing with such scary things as fresh vegetables and raw meat.

I was fortunate enough to snare a husband-to-be who DOES like to cook. James has been known to whip up steaks and shrimp and pastas with homemade sauces (aka, not powder from a packet, which is as far as I’ll venture). I eat like a king (or queen, I guess) whenever James is in charge of cooking, and he once died of happiness because I made him a grilled cheese sandwich. I’m pretty sure James is getting the bum end of the deal in this impending marriage, but he hasn’t figured it out yet, so how about if nobody tells him?

Anyway, back to Haakon and the dinner. I hemmed and hawed and spluttered, but Haakon (himself prone to whipping up delightful meals) insisted. Haakon does not take no for an answer.

I panicked and called James, who was living four-ish hours away in Ellsworth, Minnesota. After a bit of whining about how I never cook for him (why on earth would I since he’s so much better at it?!), James agreed to help me out. He suggested chicken with mustard cream sauce: a meal he’d made for me a number of times, and it was consistently delicious. James gave me the recipe and assured me that I’d be fine.

I had something like three days to prepare this meal, and I spent all three days either a.) complaining about it to anyone who would listen, b.) fretting that I was going to embarrass myself with a terrible meal, or c.) hoping to God that I didn’t accidentally give Haakon food poisoning. I made about a zillion trips to the grocery store (including a special outing for a meat thermometer) until it was time for me to actually cook something.

The chicken – according to James and probably everyone else who has ever cooked anything – was apparently simple:

four boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
two tablespoons olive oil
1/4 cup dry white wine (chardonnay)
1/2 cup heavy cream
two tablespoons dijon mustard
one teaspoon dried basil

1.) Sprinkle chicken breasts with salt and pepper.
2.) In a large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat.
3.) Add chicken; sautee until cooked through (10-12 minutes), turning once.
4.) Transfer to a plate and keep warm.
5.) Pour wine into the hot skillet; cook - stirring until reduced by half (about one minute).
6.) Whisk in cream, mustard, and basil; cook - whisking until thickened (about two minutes).
7.) Pour any accumulated chicken juices from the plate into the sauce.
8.) Right before serving, drizzle cream sauce over chicken.

But for a novice like me, I didn’t want to take any chances. Everything else was packaged: Crescent rolls, instant mashed potatoes (surprisingly tasty!), and a salad kit. One made-from-scratch thing was more than enough for me.

Haakon arrived just in time to find me waving smoke out of the kitchen. No worries: I didn’t burn the place down, nor did I scorch the chicken into oblivion (I called it “blackened”). The meal turned out surprisingly well (aside from the crappy clearance-aisle mini-brownies, but who could’ve seen that coming?). My chicken wasn’t as good as James’s, but luckily for me, Haakon had never tried James’s chicken. Whew. Best of all? Nobody got food poisoning!

I did not make the chicken in this picture,
but it looks an awful lot like the chicken
I did make. Minus the blackening.

With my moderate success at cooking raw meat, you may be wondering if the world of cooking was opened up to me. Did I realize my unfulfilled culinary potential? Have I been cooking complicated yet scrumptious meals ever since? Hell no, I haven’t! That meal just reinforced my belief that cooking kind of sucks and is better left to those who enjoy it. Will I ever learn? I’ll never say never, but don’t hold your breath!

adventures in Brookings: the Geek Shoppe edition.

As I’ve told you again and again, Brookings was the number one destination of my youth. Dentist appointment? Go to Brookings. Visiting Grandma Lorraine? Go to Brookings. School supplies? Go to Brookings.

Once I got my driver’s license, even more of my time was spent in Brookings. When my friend Allison and I were looking for something to do on a slow Saturday, we’d hop in my crappy car or her crappy car and head southeast. Compared to Arlington, Brookings was chock-full of entertainment choices. Our favorite spot was a store we lovingly called the Geek Shoppe.

The Geek Shoppe has been in its spot in downtown Brookings for as long as I can remember. It’s half pet supply store, half hobby shop: you can buy turtle food and replica Lord of the Rings swords all in one stop.

When you walk in the Geek Shoppe, you’ll immediately notice the smell. It’s a smell unlike any other: a distinctive bouquet of live fish and unshowered high school boys. You’ll get used to it.

The other thing you’ll notice is the sheer volume of stuff. The Geek Shoppe is a one-level store, but it’s split into two parts via a couple of steps. The ground floor, if you will, is packed full of shelving and fishtanks. Back when I used to go to the Geek Shoppe, the whole left side was filled with board games and t-shirts, the middle had shelves full of pet supplies, and the right was part fish, part cash register, and part ads for free cockatiels. If you were to go up the steps to the raised area, you’d find the replica weapons, books/comic books, and a table full of teenagers playing Dungeons and Dragons.

At this point, you’re probably wondering if I am a closet Dungeons and Dragons player, or if I collect comic books and keep my glasses held together with tape. But no: I’ve never bought a comic book, and I don’t even know what the goal of Dungeons and Dragons is. So if I don’t care about any of that stuff, what drew me to the Geek Shoppe? Two things: the fish and the owner.

The Geek Shoppe had the best fish. While their tanks were scummy, the fish inside were all sorts of crazy shapes and colors. There were tiny crabs and neon snails that could also come home with you. I never bought a fish at the Geek Shoppe, but Allison sure did: she named them Napoleon and Spartacus, and they lived long goldfish lives.

The pride and joy of the Geek Shoppe was a three-foot-long pacu (vegetarian piranha) named Milo. 

This is not Milo himself, but this is the same look he'd
give you if you stopped by his tank.

Milo would blink at you plaintively if you stopped by his enormous tank, and if you came at the right time of day, the owner would let you feed Milo his bananas and blueberries. Allison and I first started going to the Geek Shoppe in the very early 2000s, and Milo was a fixture. Sadly, just this summer, my cousins and I stopped in the Geek Shoppe for old times’ sake and noticed that Milo’s tank sat empty. My cousin Monica – never afraid to ask questions – approached the owner and asked where Milo was. Of course, poor Milo had gone to the big fishtank in the sky.

So now let’s talk about the aforementioned owner of the Geek Shoppe. Allison and I didn’t learn his name for many years, so we always called him “Mr Geek.” Mr Geek was the epitome of a hobby shop owner: he had a calculator watch, for crying out loud. But let me tell you: he was the friendliest guy. He would overhear Allison’s and my conversations and would giggle from behind the counter. We were a different breed, after all: he was used to the not-at-all-chatty Dungeonmasters who occupied the back half of his store.

During our sophomore year, Allison and I had a science teacher who kept an aquarium in her classroom. For reasons unknown, all of our teacher’s fish had kicked the bucket. As we stared into the Geek Shoppe’s fishtanks, Allison noticed some suckerfish. "Weren't the fish that just died suckerfish?” she said. “We should get some for our teacher because she's dead... I mean, the fish are dead, not her." Mr Geek about busted a gut. Our conversation turned to Oscars: “Didn't our old science teacher have an Oscar?” I wondered aloud. Mr. Geek, ever the fountain of knowledge, said, "If he was orange and black and had a big mouth, he was an Oscar." 

In case you were curious.

I added, "His name was Oscar the Oscar. Very creative.” If memory serves me correctly, this comment actually had Mr Geek doubled over the counter. Our comments weren’t really that funny, but for the humor-starved, we were hilarious.

Looking back, I do feel kind of bad that I never really bought anything at the Geek Shoppe. I know I bought some kind of sculpture for Allison’s fishtank, and I may have bought some kind of weird peach soda. Shamefully, just last April, I missed a golden opportunity to patronize the Geek Shoppe. It was the night before my 25^th birthday, and James and I had gone to Brookings to have early birthday Pizza King with my parents. As we were walking back to our car, I spotted a giant stuffed dinosaur in the window of a doll/dress shop. It was AWESOME and I HAD TO HAVE IT. Of course, the store was closed, but we called the next day and bought it over the phone. Yes: I bought myself a stuffed T-rex for my 25^th birthday.

Aww!

My mom was willing to pick it up for me after she got done with work. The store closed before Mom would be able to get there, so the shop owner – Mr Geek’s mother! – sent it to the Geek Shoppe right across the street. Mom went to pick the dinosaur up there, and Mr Geek had one just like it in his store! That’s what I get for not shopping around.

Should you ever be in Brookings and in need of some dragon figurines – or simply to kill time – I’d highly recommend you stop by the Geek Shoppe. It’s an experience like no other, I assure you. Say hi to the fish for me.

school bus stories.

I grew up in the country: not “boondocks cut off from all communication have to make my own clothes out of deer hide” country, but “gravel roads fifteen miles from a grocery store start driving tractors when you’re six” country. Like anywhere, it had its pros and its cons: I loved having a giant (or, what seemed giant at the time) backyard forest to play in, and I loved exploring the sloughs and catching salamanders. The cons were relatively minor: I was much more likely to get ticks, and my chores sometimes involved picking rocks out of fields. There was one con, though, that overshadowed them all: the school bus.

Though it is a stock photo, this bus has South Dakota plates.
Really adds to the story, wouldn't you say?

In the early years of my academic career, riding the bus was actually kind of fun. If you’re five years old and your parents deem you responsible enough to ride the bus by yourself, it’s a pretty big deal. I remember my very first day of school: my mom offered to give me a ride, but I said no: big, important kindergarteners (like me) rode the bus. I’m sure she was impressed.

It didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off. Turns out the school bus is smelly, loud, and a terribly bouncy ride (thankfully, I’ve never been one for carsickness). From kindergarten until the time we moved (eighth grade), our bus driver was our next door neighbor. What sounds awfully convenient ended up being a total curse: after the bus driver’s own kids, my siblings and I were the first ones on in the morning and the last ones off at night. Our ride was usually not more than an hour each way, but an hour on a school bus is an awfully long hour.

Every once in a while, my friend Sarah would ride the bus. Those days were the greatest: she was the only one of my friends who lived on my bus route, and Sarah usually rode in with her mom (who worked in Arlington). When Sarah rode the bus, I FINALLY had someone to talk to. Without Sarah, I had to try to drown out the screeching of my busmates either by extreme concentration on my chapter books or with my bright yellow faux-Walkman in which I played the Lion King soundtrack tape on repeat. (That was foiled, though, when the bus driver scolded me for my music being too loud. Well, how ELSE am I supposed to hear “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” over the squealing of my fellow elementary schoolers?) Sarah’s bus days were few and far between, so the only thing I really remember about her riding the bus was the time she whacked a sixth grader with my pink Mickey and Minnie Mouse lunchbox. 

YOU GUYS this is totally the lunchbox I had! Google
Images is the best thing ever.

The handle broke and my dad had to replace the missing pink plastic gadget with an old farm screw that didn’t quite go with the princessy theme.

Getting on the bus in the morning was rarely anything to worry about since there was always a parent around to make sure we dragged our lazy selves out of bed on time. Making the bus after school could be a different story. We got out of school at 3.15, and the buses tended to leave at 3.20 if they could. I was usually pretty good at getting to the bus in the milder months, but in winter, it was a challenge – especially when the teacher won’t let you out of the room until your snowpants and boots are on. If I missed the bus, I would retreat to my friend Allison’s house and wait patiently for my mom to pick me up after work. (I missed the bus accidentally-on-purpose on more than one occasion so I could do just that. Mom wasn’t pleased.)

In South Dakota, you can get your learner’s permit at 14 – since most of us have been driving tractors since we were tall enough to reach the pedals, we might as well be driving cars, right? By that time, I was the oldest kid on the bus, and I had been for some time. The kid closest to my age on the bus was my sister Darrah… almost FOUR YEARS younger than me. Riding the bus was the mark of the uncool, and I thought my shiny new learner’s permit (and shiny new-to-me 1987 Buick Park Avenue) would be my salvation. Not so fast, came the word from my parents. If I wanted to drive to school and back every day – about a 30-mile round-trip – I’d better be prepared to pay for the gas. I had worked all summer at Twisters, but of course, I’d squandered every last cent. My only income was my weekly allowance, and that certainly wasn’t going to fill my tank. I was a little worried that I’d NEVER get to use my new driving skills when my parents told me not to fret: I would, in fact, be driving on their dime. I could drive to school on 1.) Wednesdays for confirmation, and 2.) Tuesdays and Thursdays when I needed to take my younger siblings to Brookings for Tae Kwon Do.

For a glorious year and a half, I only rode the bus on Mondays and Fridays (except for that month in ninth grade when my license was suspended, but that’s another story). When I got confirmed in October of my sophomore year, I no longer needed to stay after school for confirmation, so I was back to riding the bus on Wednesdays. Aside from the odd oral interp meet or honor band (what a dork, I know), there was no way out of riding the bus.

For the rest of my sophomore year and all through my junior year, I whined to my parents about how I was the OLDEST kid on the bus and NO HIGH SCHOOLER WITH ANY SELF RESPECT WOULD BE CAUGHT DEAD RIDING THE BUS. My father had no pity: “I rode the bus until I was a senior in high school! When I was in college, all I had was a Schwinn! I RODE MY SCHWINN THROUGH THE SNOW!” Skunked again.

My salvation came in the form of a little blue coupe. In the summer after my junior year, I used my hard-earned Methodist camp money to buy a little Ford ZX2 stick-shift named Susie. 

Not actually Susie, but a snappy stand-in.
Man, do I miss that car.

I also dove headfirst into activities: I was in oral interp, band, choir, the all-school play, National Honor Society, and the one-act play, plus I taught Sunday School and was in advanced biology (which practically required a couple evenings a week set aside for studying terms). Rare was the day when I didn’t have something going on after school. Since Susie was impossibly cheap to drive (four cylinders and a five-speed manual transmission = CHEAP) and my schedule was hectic, I was given the go-ahead to drive to school every day. My school bus days were finally over.

I have ridden buses in years since – I suffered through several band bus trips in college, including a 20+ ride to New Orleans, and my experiences on the Denver city bus over one summer are a story all their own. For now, let’s hope that my bus-riding days are permanently behind me: I’ve clocked enough time and smelled enough eau-de-public-transportation to last me a lifetime.

bad hair stories.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that there are some terribly simple things that I have a really difficult time learning how to do. I haven’t been able to master the fine art of whistling, nor have I figured out how to properly parallel park. But this story isn’t about those particular life failures: it’s about how, after almost 26 years, I am still really REALLY bad at my hair.

I’m not bad at it as in I forget to wash it or I have debilitating dandruff. I am bad at in in two ways: 1.) a total inability to make it look nice, and 2.) a number of hair-related mishaps I’ve dealt with over the past couple of decades.

Let me begin with my total hair-styling ineptitude. I have never, EVER, in all my life, been able to do anything with my hair. I can brush it, and I can straighten it, but that’s about where it ends. On the bright side, this made me immune to embarrassing hair trends: I never had stacked bangs, nor could I clip my hair back with zillions of plastic clips shaped like butterflies (remember those?). My friends, I couldn’t even master the ponytail: in elementary school, the only respectable ponytail was one in which your hair was completely slicked back and smooth. It better not have any bumps in it, or you’d have to start over. I couldn’t do it.

I could barely master these bangs, for crying out loud.

Armed with the knowledge of my lack of hair skills, I chose my haircuts accordingly. While I longed for the gorgeous layered haircuts that were big in the mid-90s, I knew that to achieve such style, I’d be forced to spend time with the curling iron. No thanks.

When I was a groomsmaid in my friend Bob’s wedding, we were given free reign with our hair. This pleased most of the groomsmaids – no salon, hooray! – but it struck fear in my hair-stylingly challenged heart. This was my dear friend’s wedding, so I had to look presentable. I toyed with the idea of forking out the money for an up-do at a salon, but let me tell you, those don’t come cheap. I ended up getting up extra early, curling my hair, and hairspraying it into submission. And how did it turn out? I’d rate it a “meh.”

Meh.

I don’t think it’s all me: my hair is a bit on the uncooperative side. My hair has an issue for every season, so there’s really no reprieve. Springtime rains bring an inordinate amount of frizz. My hair is very thick, so summer heat is pretty rough – and you can totally forget about me making any sort of effort with hair tools that use heat (aka, all of them). Fall, while it is my favorite season, dulls whatever color the sun gave my hair during the summer (more on that later). Wintertime is the absolute worst. I am an excellent conductor of static electricity, so I spent November through March with my hair standing on end. If I had a dollar every time I threatened to cut it all off… well, I’d probably have a lot of dollars.

My nonexistent hair-styling prowess is one thing, but I also have a handful of hair catastrophes under my belt. The first disaster I can remember was in first grade: there was an outbreak of lice, and I was one of the unfortunate victims. I had to take half a day off and get my hair washed with lice shampoo, and I was MAD: not mad because of the lice or the nasty shampoo, but because I had to miss half a day of school. It was toward the end of the school year, and I was on my way to perfect attendance (you got a medal!), but then the lice ruined it all.

The next hair failure was in the seventh grade. I was twelve, and I had braces and round John Lennon glasses: a grade-A nerd. And what did I decide to do? I made it worse with a perm. Glasses plus braces plus crazy hair: it was a dork triumvirate.

I had always wanted curly hair (I was always jealous of my friend Sarah’s curly hair), and a perm seemed like a great idea. I could forever bid farewell to the curling iron, as I’d simply roll out of bed in the morning, perfectly coiffed – or so went my perm fantasy.

I have the incredible good fortune to have an aunt (Barb) who is a stylist, and she agreed to give me a perm. Barb executed said perm perfectly, but after all the chemicals had been rinsed out of my hair, I found out that my perm expectations differed vastly from what a real perm actually looked like.

AHH!

My perm days were ridiculous. I had to mousse the bejeezus out of it every morning for fear of spending the rest of the day with a fuzzy mess of a perm. Due to the sheer volume of mousse it took to keep my hair under control, my hair was crunchy and so moussed that it looked wet. All day. If I had stood too close to a flame, we may have had another Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial on our hands. Too soon?

Growing out my perm was quite an ordeal, too. I knew that once was enough, so there would be no touch-ups for me. I think it took close to a year for the perm to have completely exited my tresses, and if you’ve ever tried to grow out a perm, you know what a pain it is.

Horrible. Just horrible.

I managed to stay mostly unscathed throughout the rest high school and most of college, mostly because I placed my hair trust in Barb. Thanks to her, I had nice hair for two proms and a wedding, not to mention some enviable lowlights and low-maintenance layers. Sadly, all good things must end.

It was the spring semester of my junior year of college, and I was ready for a change. I headed to downtown Morris (fancy, I know – especially considering downtown Morris doesn’t hold much more than a skeezy mall and a few antique stores). I wanted something above my shoulders with a few layers, pretty simple. My stylist was a totally apathetic, extremely pregnant woman who gave the impression that she’d really rather be somewhere else. She gave me a quick haircut and sent me on my way, not showing me the back of my hair or asking if I liked what I saw. I didn’t think much of it… until I got home and my roommate asked, in a certain “how do I tell her that her haircut sucks?” kind of voice, what I thought of my haircut. Until then, I hadn’t examined the back: it appeared as if she had cut a big chunk out, but not bothered to fix it. The back of my hair looked like a fishtail. GREAT.

By this time, all the Morris salons had closed. My only hope was to drive to Alexandria: at 45 miles away, it was the nearest city with any hope of a salon that stayed open past 5 o’clock. I high-tailed it to make it there by 8.30, only to find that all the salons had closed early (even though they had told me 9pm on the phone! Curses!). Defeated, I went home, slept on my fishtail hair, and got up early the next day to get a haircut at a different Morris salon. When I got there, the stylist said, “What HAPPENED to you?!” Thankfully, she was able to fix it – and my hair has never been shorter.

Don't ask about the faces. It was finals week.

My latest and greatest hair fiasco was only about two years ago. It was October, and I was living in the cities. James had come to visit me for the weekend, and I had the bright idea to dye my hair. The ends of my hair were still sunshiny blond from the summer, while my roots were more ashy. I had never dyed my hair before, but how hard could it be? People did box dyes all the time! All I wanted to do was even out the color, which I assumed would be easy as pie.

I don’t know if it was the cheap hair dye or if I’m just an idiot, but my hair didn’t turn out as planned. Specifically: it was orange. Nasty, brassy, “obviously I just dyed my hair and dyed it poorly” orange. Luckily, it was a Friday night, so I didn’t have to go to work the next day with my hair in this horrible state. Unluckily, it was a Friday night, so almost all of the hair salons we frantically called were booked up for the next day. Mercifully, we found one that wasn’t: Fantastic Sam’s.

I woke up the next morning, wondering if I had dreamed that I’d dyed my hair. Looking in the mirror told me that it was no dream, so off to Fantastic Sam’s we went. When I walked in the door, the colorist knew immediately what I had done: “I see this all the time” were her exact words. I picked out a shade that looked mostly like my natural color, and she dyed away. It came out a little darker than normal and was a definite blow to the old pocketbook, but nobody noticed that my hair was a different color: a success in my book.

Since then, I’ve been able to avoid any major catastrophes, mostly because I’ve avoided any sort of major hair change. I’m getting married in less than seven months, so I’m more or less leaving my hair alone until then: therefore, it’s longer than it’s ever been and driving me nuts. I’ve noticed that quite a few brides chop off their hair post-wedding, so I may have another hair story to tell this summer. Wish me luck in the meantime.