PhotoBeam

Chubs

2010-02-06T13:37:00.005-06:00

Jack said yesterday morning that Junie was getting "quite plump."

"Babies are supposed to be chubby," I said. "It protects them."

"Oh," he said. "So like if stranger danger came, she could just plump him away."

"Something like that."

On fatherhood

2010-02-05T14:04:00.000-06:00

Father’s Day weekend last year, President Obama continued a conversation he began on the campaign trail, about the importance of responsible fatherhood in our country.

“I say this as someone who grew up without a father in my life,” he told a group of community leaders and teenage boys at the White House. “That’s something that leaves a hole in a child’s heart that governments can’t fill.”

And in an essay released the week before, the President said more fathers need to “step up, to realize that their job does not end at conception; that what makes you a man is not the ability to have a child but the courage to raise one.”

It’s a subject that rouses me because my husband, like Mr. Obama, was abandoned by his father at a young age.

It’s part of his life story, obviously, but it’s not a big part of his identity. I’m pretty sure I’m more angry about it than Erik is.

It’s a familiar story: After his dad left when he was five, Erik would get a phone call or a card from him on his birthday or at Christmas. Most of the time. But soon the calls came less frequently, and eventually his father just kind of faded away.

I cannot imagine what that must have been like.

But Erik was raised by a strong, capable, reliable mother and grandmother to become a strong, capable, reliable man.

And he is an amazing father. He transcended whatever legacy his own father left behind, and he made it look easy.

I’ve been surprised, at times, by how intuitive it has been for him. From the moment I first told him we were going to be parents, at a time in our lives that wasn’t ideal, his reaction was ecstatic. There was no fear, no hesitation.

Our sons adore their father, and he returns the affection. Sometimes after we tuck them into bed we share anecdotes about their day – funny things they said or did that amused us.

Often he’ll shake his head and say, “Gosh, I love those boys.” Almost like it amazes him, over and over again, how much love he can have for his children – and that his capacity for loving them is always swelling.

And when we’re at the places where other boys and young men hang out, he can spot the ones without male role models in their lives. They look aimless, like they’re searching for something.

Responsible fatherhood isn’t reliant on the father being in a committed relationship with the mother – that’s ideal, of course, but everyone knows it doesn’t always work out that way.

It’s about him being in a committed relationship with his children.

I know many divorced dads and single dads who are wonderful fathers. Period. But I think we as a country need to stop shaming single mothers while giving a free pass to fathers who, like the President said, have “abandoned their responsibilities, acting like boys instead of men.”

In Erik’s father’s case, I will never understand it. I have known my husband since middle school and know that he has, constantly and without fail, been an excellent son and human being: Smart, driven, funny, honest, kind.

Reasonable.

Forgiving.

And I always think, it would have been so easy. He wouldn’t have asked for much from a father.

I don’t feel sorry for Erik, because he has never felt sorry for himself. He has gone on to success in school and in his career, and he is an involved and unabashedly loving father to his sons and his new daughter.

When our children grow to find success of their own, Erik can take pride in helping guide them.

That’s something Erik’s father has deprived himself of – along with the grandchildren he will never know.

So if I feel sorry for anyone, it’s him.

A photo essay on my little punks

2009-05-26T16:38:00.007-05:00

Citizens of Baraboo, I'd like to assure you that my sons, Eli and Jackson, have not — quite yet — become hellions. Or rebels, or punks, or roustabouts.

Not at all.

The new haircuts they acquired over the weekend, however, may lead you to this conclusion. Really, there's no need for alarm.

You see, for several years I have been cutting costs by cutting the hair of all three of my boys (that tally includes my husband).

I'm the first to admit there have been some mishaps.

In the time since my mother-in-law gifted me a set of clippers, I have both shaved one of my husband's sideburns bald after forgetting to attach the comb, and later, while attempting to trim the area around his ear with a scissors, sliced him open right above the left lobe.

But we saved $15 on each of those occasions, so I, for one, believe it was well worth it.

My sons are perhaps justifiably less thrilled to have me cut their hair, especially my older son, Eli.

His hair is so thick it, for lack of a better term, is woolly. He wanted to grow it out, but since the weather turned, it's been like wearing a shaggy sheepskin on his head, and he's been in dire need of a shearing.

Still he resisted - until he came home from skateboarding Saturday and announced he was ready for me to cut his hair … into a Mohawk.

Apparently, he was inspired by "that one guy at the skate park" — an older kid who's a really good skater and whose coolness is compounded by his haircut.

This was the first time in his life Eli has had an opinion on anything related to style. He usually just doesn't care. But he sat down in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, and said, "I'm ready when you're ready, Mama."

There are no major holidays approaching. No school pictures. What's the worst that could happen? So I went for it.

Let me tell you, giving a 7-year-old a Mohawk is harder than it would seem.

Mostly, it's a challenge to get it straight. His isn't. Not even close, really. But lucky for me this is only noticeable from the vantage point of an adult.

The other thing I didn't anticipate was that his 5-year-old brother, with his beautiful straight shiny locks that I have long kept in a pretty-boy cut, would upon seeing his brother decide that he, too, needed a Mohawk.

Now.

Also sitting wrapped in a towel on the bathroom floor, like some kind of haircut sit-in, he would insist on it until I caved.

I planned for Jack's to be a much more subtle gradation, using the Â½ inch comb at the sides and the 1 inch on top. I was clever. But then, after trimming the top and realizing the "hawk" part was uneven, I accidentally switched to the Â¼ inch comb for the sides.

"Oh, no!" I cried when it was too late.

"What is it?" he demanded, probably thinking I had just sliced off a section of his ear.

But when it was done, he loved it.

As I vacuumed up their locks from the bathroom floor, I could hear Jack improvising a song in the shower: "Uh-huh… Oh, yeah … I have a Mohawk. First Mama said I couldn't, but then she gave me one anyway … Oh, yeah … I have a Mohawk …"

Then, still in song, "Now I have to pee, but I'm in the shower. Should I get out, or should I just pee in the shower?"

I won't get into how that was resolved.

Eli told me, "Thank you so much for the haircut, Mama. I always wanted some kind of Mohawk."

When I asked him why, he said, "Because … it just makes you look so much cooler. Doesn't it?," framing his head with his hands, like Madonna in the "Vogue" video.

I thought you were cool before, I said, but yes, you may have gone up a few notches.

Jack came in and nodded at his brother in appreciation. "Your haircut looks awesome, Eli," he said.

"Thanks, Jack. So does yours."

So though they may spend the summer looking like hellions, they're not acting like it quite yet. But if their choice in haircut is any indication, they may have a little rebel in them already.

60 months

2009-03-30T22:30:00.037-05:00

Lost Boys

2009-03-01T09:27:00.009-06:00

Came downstairs this morning to find this.

Friday night Erik came home from the store with the boys and their new $5.50 bows and arrows. Immediately this was added to what I think of as "unexpected allowances" — things that, if you had asked me when I righteously started out on this parenting adventure, I would never have allowed. Four-year-olds watching Star Wars movies? No. Seven-year-olds in wrestling? No. Bows and arrows? NO. But, you know, boys happen.

They woke up before dawn and started playing "Indians." They made headdresses with elaborate scenes drawn on them. Explanation of Eli's headdress: "The Indians are running away from the big bear into the house, and then the chief Indian came and he got out his bow and arrow and starting shooting the bear." Explanation of Jackie's headdress: "A bunch of Indians and the sun (the sun has sunglasses) are running away from the big tornado and one Indian got sucked up into the tornado and some of the Indians are trying to take the sun's sunglasses." Epic.

They drew pictures of animals and taped them to the wall and hunted them, colored a fire to cook with, and built an earthen lodge out of couch cushions.

Eli appointed himself Chief, and Jackie was "Chief's Apprentice." Jackie would begin a sentence with, "Eli?...," then cut himself off and say, "I mean, excuse me, Chief?"

Here they enjoy a brief breakfast break — cereal for the Chief, oatmeal (two helpings) for the Chief's Apprentice.

Chief dragging Chief's Apprentice off the battlefield.

"You were shot the in back with two arrows, but you're going to be okay. I'm going to get the medicine man."

Then Erik woke up, made himself an even more elaborate headdress than either of theirs, and announced, "There's a new chief in town, boys."

And that's why he, my friends, is the source of all my unexpected allowances.

Sanibel Island

2009-02-08T16:34:00.012-06:00

Snowlashes

2009-01-14T21:55:00.000-06:00

He gets the motor running

2009-01-04T20:27:00.003-06:00

Returned from our two-week vacation to find the battery dead on the car we left behind. Pictured is Erik, charging said battery. He's such a manly-man.

Additionally, I was accused of "spying on [him]" for taking this through the window of a darkened room in the house. Whatever.

So I could wiss you Merry Cwissmass...

2008-12-23T08:33:00.002-06:00

Mary plucked cherries while Joseph stood around

2008-12-19T09:10:00.002-06:00

I would love to go back to this tree today and get some photos of the berries in our current snowstorm but, you know, I'm battening down the hatches.

Most. Mature. Photographer. Ever.

2008-12-18T22:15:00.001-06:00

This is a select excerpt from the "CLASSROOM BUILDING" sign on my campus. I was waiting to meet a student who never showed so I was feeling a bit snarky.

It also reminds me of a friend from college, whom I was constantly (and correctly) accusing of being "sassy." Then when a store called "Four Seasons" in my third-rate hometown mall went out of business and left its sign behind, I stole the letters S-A-S-S and gave them to my friend, who hung them on her dorm room wall with some degree of pride.

If anyone wants a wall-sized enlargement of this photo I will totally do that for you at cost.

Never leave the Lord unattended

2008-12-08T19:46:00.006-06:00

I was at a Catholic wedding with my Jewish aunt, who nudged me to take a picture of this sign. Neither of us had much idea what it meant, but we both liked the language of it, outside of a religious context. There are few committed adorers of any kind in this world, I think. Anytime — AM, PM — we could use some.

On the road again

2008-12-07T19:34:00.000-06:00

I took this this weekend while driving, in inclement weather. Because I'm smart like that. But I'm completely enamored with highway shots, and I like how the colors and the purposely slowed shutter speed took form.

Well, THAT was embarrassing

2008-12-05T07:22:00.006-06:00

I took Chuckie to the vet yesterday because his belly had become increasingly distended over the past several months. That and (I apologize in advance) he's had loose stools. I was convinced he was afflicted with some sort of serious intestinal ailment. I was concerned for his well-being.

It was a bad sign when I arrived and all the veterinary assistants were like, "My, he's gotten BIG," and "Ooh, Chuckie, you're a BIG boy aren't you?" and "Wow, he's really GROWN since the last time we saw him."

Not, "Chuckie doesn't look well."

Just, "Your cat has a fat, fat ass."

They weighed him and he's now 14.8 lbs, meaning he's gained more than three pounds in less than three months.

The vet, a laid-back middle-aged biker with salt-and-pepper hair and a slight Southern accent, came in and started prodding Chuckie's enormous belly. Chuckie just lay there on the examination table, accepting it as some sort of odd pat.

"Huh," the vet said. "No sensitivity or soreness. I don't feel any unusual masses. It's not particularly firm..."

I could see where this was going.

"Chuckie here needs to lose weight."

I tried explaining to him that though Chuckie does eat constantly, we have to leave the food out because our other cat is tiny and getting smaller. Most of the time Chuckie is monopolizing the food bowl, I said, but on the off chance that Bitty comes down for a bite, shouldn't there be food out for her? Shouldn't there?

He shook his head. Separate, measured feedings from now on.

I sighed.

"You know," I said, "We got him from the shelter. I think there was a time in his life when he didn't have enough food, and now that it's always available he's overcompensating."

The vet shook his head again.

"You know, sometimes people try to tell me that," he said. "But cats just don't have that level of... cognition. It's not like they wake up in the morning and think, 'I better stock up on food now - I might be out on the street tonight.'"

He paused, and prodded Chuckie's belly a bit more, for good measure.

"He just likes to eat."

So now Chuckie gets just 3/4 cup food per day, split into two feedings. He is going to drive me bananas, I just know it. I asked the vet if it's okay to feed him early in the morning and then not again till evening.

"Or does he need a mid-day feeding?" I asked.

"No, he most certainly does not," he said.

Last night I didn't feed him because he already had been eating all day. He was underfoot the entire evening, looking up at me expectantly, like, "Oh, pardon me, you probably didn't notice, but the food bowl is actually empty."

Or perhaps I'm attributing him with too much cognition again.

Then he ate a piece of penne pasta one of the boys dropped at dinner.

All golden

2008-12-03T17:00:00.004-06:00

Because our nutcracker collection was on its way out of control following an after-Christmas clearance last year, I'm now limiting it to one new cracker per boy, per Christmas. This was Jackie's choice for 2008.

It's fair to say he's one of the ones that falls under the "creepy" category.

For one thing, we got him at the thrift store. I love shopping there, but the premise of the store is that it's filled with items that other people rejected. It's times like these when it's easy to tell why.

He's also the only nutcracker without a wooden face -- instead he has this molded old man doll's face and it's actually a part of his sternum that unhinges to do the cracking.

Finally, his outfit is completely covered in gold sequins, hat and everything. Oh, and he's missing his feet. But other than that, a perfectly fine specimen.

Here's how Jackie described his newest acquisition:

"He's my nutcracker and I call him old man but he's a king, and he has a mustache, and he can stomp his teeth and he's all golden. And he doesn't have any feet."

They will crack your nuts

2008-12-02T18:29:00.004-06:00

Here's a special treat for my loyal readers: This month I will be featuring a series of photos of my son Eli's nutcracker collection. He has amassed a number of the earnest, wooden figurines in the last couple of years. He can't really explain what he likes about them; he just likes them. I do too, the more I'm around them, though some are a little creepy. Not you, fellow. Some of the other guys.

How to make the perfect pierogie

2008-11-21T23:23:00.007-06:00

Starring my mother-in-law, Luella:

Only for the lucky and the strong

2008-11-20T22:58:00.000-06:00

This is a partial role of vintage wallpaper I scored at St. Vinny's last week that smells like old lady house and was without a doubt used to plaster the walls of an old lady bathroom in, like, 1976. And I love it.

It didn't come across well in the photo but the background is actually a slightly metallic champagne color and the roses are red velvet, the full bloom ones being about six inches in diameter. It was $1. Can you imagine?

I like to make my own cards from images torn from old books so I was thinking I may use it for Christmas cards, or gift tags. I really want to spread the wealth on this one. Any suggested uses would be very much appreciated, friends.

The Uncooperative Patient

2008-11-17T09:09:00.004-06:00

Over the weekend Eli had an awful stomach virus where he didn't keep anything down -- not a bite of applesauce, a slurp of Gatorade or a nibble of gingersnap -- for 24 hours. But he was so sweet, just resting and snuggling and saying, quite often as I waited on him and cleaned up after him, "You're a good Mama."

Now Jackie has come down with the same virus. He was up all night throwing up but by 5:30 he was ready to go downstairs and play. I had to hold him down in bed a couple of times. Then he got upset that I made him eat applesauce for breakfast, instead of getting Froot Loops like his brother. Then he threw up again, but it was like it re-energized him, and he collected all his "guys" and started playing on the floor. So I made him sit on the couch in the same "nest" of blankies I made for Eli, where he proceeded to grab his Indian figure and fire imaginary arrows at the cat (pictured).

Finally I put on Indiana Jones and he settled down a bit. The boys play together constantly and look alike and love the same things, so in my mind I sometimes group them together as one singular, brother-tastical unit. It's times like these when I realize just how different they are.

The photos I'll never post

2008-10-17T08:58:00.003-05:00

I taught the boys how to use our small digital camera. They loved it.

They took pictures of flowers. They took pictures of fall leaves. They took pictures of the cats. They took pictures of me putting laundry away. They took more pictures of the cats.

Then, when I was in the shower, they pulled down their pants and took what they called "weenie pictures."

Now they're on break from the camera.

And I feel like frickin' Mom of the Year.

I Heart Fall

2008-10-10T21:28:00.015-05:00

Fall is far and away my favorite season, and every year I get photos of the boys romping in the leaves and generally epitomizing all that I love about this time of year.

We also keep the annual tradition my mom started when I was a kid of a fall caramel apple walk by the river. Unfortunately there was nary a caramel apple to be found in our town, so we had to go to the Wisconsin Dells fudge district, which is kind of like a red light district only with $7 caramel apples. I kid you not. On the bright side they weighed like 3 lbs each and two were enough for the whole family.

Some eye candy follows. Enjoy.

Apocalypse now

2008-10-06T10:24:00.002-05:00

I've been driving by this sign for at least a year and ignoring its fiery plea. Recently I finally succumbed. Go ahead -- go to it. It'll blow your mind.

Grandfatherhood

2008-09-11T17:16:00.009-05:00

My dad looks a lot like his dad, who died before I was born. Whenever I saw a picture of my grandpa, I'd ask, "Um... was Grandpa Keith grumpy all the time?" and the answer was always, "No! He was really funny, a great storyteller, had a really odd sense of humor." Not unlike my dad. But here is the reason I ended up asking that question:

This is my Irish dad, enjoying a root beer float on Labor Day weekend. Seems like a boy would like a root beer float on a hot day, but his expression for some reason conveys, "What is wrong with you people? Why are you doing this to me?"

Whenever I see him I try to get some candids of him being goofy, or relentlessly tickling my boys, or snuggling with them for a bedtime story, or in deep and proud concentration with Eli as they fish. Because that's the kind of grandpa he is, and some day I want to be able to not only tell my grandkids so, but show them.

This last one I edited to look like some old polaroids of my grandpa from the 70s. It's a little more of a smile than I typically get. We'll call it the do over.

Captain Chuckerpants

2008-08-26T21:48:00.007-05:00

In the continuing saga of Jack molding our new cat Chuckie into some sort of stuffed animal-baby brother hybrid, I introduce to you... Captain Chukerpants.

"Hey look, Mama -- Chuckie's wearing underpants!" Jackie announced this morning, as if Chuckie had woken from his slumber and decided, on his own volition, that the fur covering for his privates was simply not enough. "Underpants it is!" he must have declared.

I initially was like, "Get those underpants off Chuckie," then quickly added, "Wait... let me get my camera."

Because the funniest part was how chill Chuckie was about the whole thing. I didn't see the putting on of the underpants so I'm not sure how that went down, but look at his face. There's no indignity whatsoever. He's all, "Yeah, I'm hanging out in these oversized sports-themed skivvies. What's it to ya?"

He's the cat of my childhood dreams. Instead, when I was in fourth grade, we got Fritzi. She was a sweet kitty but not so much into being dressed up in clothing. At all. I had a ruffled baby bonnet I thought was particularly fetching on her and I would put her on bonnet lock-down in my room. Also, once she got in a fight with another cat and got a claw through the ear, resulting in a permanent piercing. I would put little hoop earrings in it, thinking she looked adorable, especially when paired with aforementioned bonnet. But the expression on her face was decidedly sour. I have pictures.

But Chuckie pretty much held this pose until I was done. Then he ate some food, in the underpants. And laid back down, apparently to take a nap, in the underpants.

Finally I made Jackie take them off, for real this time.

When it was over, Jackie patted him and said, "Good boy, Chuckie."

He sure is.

Rainbow Swirl

2008-08-22T08:59:00.003-05:00

To borrow a photography term, we have hit the "golden hour" of summer in terms of popsicle consumption. School starts in under two weeks, and my normal nutritional restrictions for the boys are going the way of the summer pool pass and the water balloon fights.

Popsicles before breakfast? Why not!

Popsicles immediately before we leave for preschool so that you are covered from chin to knee with streaks of sticky syrup, like a walking human fly trap? Can't see a problem with that!

Popsicles ten minutes before bed? No different than a warm glass of milk, as far as I can see!

They're like 40 calories, they have some semblance of fruit or artificially fruit-flavored goodness, and they make my boys happy. We sit on the front stoop, talk about the world (mostly the worlds created in the mind of George Lucas, but why quibble) and savor those last fading moments of summer.

Nothing can change this love

2008-08-19T20:35:00.003-05:00

Everything is still going swimmingly with Chuckie, with the exception of one minor incident today.

I returned from having dinner with a friend tonight to find Jackie sitting sullenly at the dinner table. Erik informed me that he had hit Chuckie and just got off a long time-out. This was totally unlike Jackie, who just this morning professed to "lov(ing) cats more than anyone in the whole wide universe," who LOVES cats in all caps, who literally tried to French kiss cats ON THE LIPS until he was told they lick their butts with those same lips, which only partially deterred him.

I had a feeling I wasn't getting the whole story.

So when the boys went to bed just now I brought it up with Erik. [In the interest of full disclosure, Chuckie has been having some digestive issues since he came home. It all gets in the litter box, but it's pretty... loose. And sometimes he passes gas and it smells just like a dog fart, which if you've ever smelled a dog fart you know is about the worst kind of fart there is. Erik calls it "shit farting," one of the many phrases he coined which initially seems either redundant or nonsensical but when you think about it you say, "No, that's right. That is exactly right. It is like a pile of shit vaporized into fart form." But onward.]

Erik admitted he was in the kitchen making dinner when he heard Jackie exclaim, "Eeew! Something smells like pooooooop!"

And Erik walked into the living room at the exact moment that Jackie was swatting Chuckie in what Erik described as "the butthole region." [God, I hope no one from the Humane Society is reading this right now. Tomorrow Cat Protective Services will be knocking down our door.]

Erik ommitted this part of the story when Jackie was present because he assumed, rightly, that I would laugh. Which I did, because I am an immature jerk.

Now hitting animals is wrong and bad and I condemn it. Thankfully Chuckie didn't seem to be injured in said region. Furthermore, do you remember the story about the caterpillar? Because the moral of the story is, when one animal gets thrown out a window by my son for pooping and the next animal gets off with a swat on the butthole region for a shit fart, that is what I as a parent call progress.

He's a floater

2008-08-17T11:30:00.003-05:00

These are a little late, but after working four weddings in three weeks and going through thousands of my "professional" photos I was a bit tired of, well, uploading.

Anyway, the boys took swimming lessons this summer and Eli especially loved it. He learned how to swim almost immediately and I've never seen him so conscientious and driven about a sport. Normally he's the kid who kind of stops paying attention during first-grade football and gets a wavering spiral to the forehead. Or gets bored during soccer and just stands at one end of the field waiting for the ball to come to him. Or gets put in the t-ball outfield again and again by an overly competitive coach of 7- and 8-year-olds to the point where when the ball finally does come to him he just watches it roll by. All of these I witnessed in the last year.

But swimming is different -- it's an individual sport, and Eli is an independent kid. He's studious by nature, and he gets to study the strokes, perfect them, on his own. The pride I felt seeing him float on his back with ease, his eyes closed in concentration, finally in his own little world of athletic achievement, made my throat clamp up.

Jackie, on the other hand, is a natural athlete -- coordinated, strong, fearless. His favorite part of swimming lessons was leaping off the diving board and landing on the heads of the instructors trying to catch him. They eventually moved out of the way:

World, meet Chuck

2008-08-07T21:10:00.006-05:00

I hadn't planned on getting another cat so soon. But I was browsing the local Humane Society website yesterday and saw a picture of a gentleman named "Chuckie." Here's what the description said:

"I'm Chuckie, a good looking, classic type of guy. I'm young, and I have a lovely tabby striped coat with warm brown tones to it. My eyes are large and a cool amber-green color. I've already been neutered, and I would just love a new home with YOU!"

Meh.

But it was his face that drew me in. It had so much character, and eyes that looked sad and mellow and bemused all at once. The boy had soul.

I took the boys to see him yesterday, and though he'll never be a replacement for Mini, he's everything we could hope for in a cat and, at the same time, I can feel that he will be more than just a cat for our family. He's going to fill a gaping hole we didn't even know we had.

Everyone at the shelter loved this boy. When we visited yesterday I didn't want to say I was there to see a specific cat, so I told the gal at the front desk that we had just lost a cat we'd had for 10 years, we were thinking about maybe adopting a new one, did she have a cat that was good with people, good with other cats... before I could even finish she said, "Chuckie. You need to meet Chuckie."

When we took him into the secluded "patting room," he alternated between playing with the boys and nuzzling them while rumbling like a distant freight train.

And then another staffer told me that they have 160 cats at the shelter, but when they needed to choose one to take to visit lonely people at the nursing home, they picked Chuckie.

That's all I needed to hear.

So welcome to the family, Chuck. Make yourself at home.

My car goes/Chicago

2008-08-05T21:57:00.017-05:00

Okay, so my mom's rental car does. These are from my trip last week to Chi-town with my mom and sister. It was back-to-school shopping the summer before ninth grade all over again. Fun times and girl fights, baby. Nothing like it.

These descriptions will be brief because I'm still in a sad mood about the cat.

I cheated and took this one in the reflection of the sculpture at Millinium Park. Pretty rad, no?

I liked the three yellow lights here. The green building on the left is the Carbide and Carbon Building on Michigan Ave, an art deco stunner that's now the Hard Rock Hotel, though we won't hold that against it. My new business website and logo are going to be slightly art deco themed so I was jazzed about this building.

This is a bus:

This is my mom shopping at Eileen Fisher on Michigan Avenue wearing some sort of shower cap mask that's a prerequisite for entering the dressing room, and in the foreground, a woman who was put on God's green earth for the sole purpose of working at Eileen Fisher and convincing my mother to buy a full-length khaki linen dress. I mean, look at the woman. She emits Eileen Fisher from her pores. What, your mom never shopped at Eileen Fisher? Nevermind.

We had to take at least one photo to show my dad what a good time she had in the big city:

Isn't she adorable? From what I gather, she has permanently "borrowed" that sweater from my sister, pictured here:

She's thinking, "Damn, I wish I had that polka dot sweater right about now."

Here's a picture from the same locale, but from a slightly different angle so as to crop out the sister:

We noticed there's a certain type of boy who lives in Chicago. And this is it:

Window shopping at a wig store in the neighborhood where my sister's friend, who's working on his doctorate in philosophy, lives. I let you in on that fact to add clarification and depth to the photo:

My mom was a very nervous city driver. Unreasonably nervous. There were many quick inhalations of breath through clenched teeth and utterances of "Jeeezzz!..." Note the furrowed brow:

This one's from the car driving at night. Not entirely in focus but I like it.

This is my favorite from the trip -- my mom reading in bed in the hotel, as seen in the reflection in the window:

Can you tell I like skyscrapers and skylines? The North Dakota girl in me still finds them exotic and romantic.

That's all she wrote.

p.s. The title is from a song my sister clued me in to by The Felice Brothers:
"My car goes/
Chicago/
Every weekend to pick up some cargo/
I think I know the bloody way by now, Frankie/
And turn the god damn radio down, thank you."

R.I.P., Awesome Cat

2008-08-04T09:19:00.007-05:00

This weekend we experienced the sudden passing off our belovedly enormous cat, Mini.

We adopted Mini while we were still in college. He was the runt of his litter, sickly and small, but I fell for his long white fur and dairy-cow big black spots.

As we nursed him to health that summer we discovered that, after being neglected as a young kitten, Mini had developed some sort of feline eating disorder where he devoured anything in sight.

Coincidentally, Erik also found that Mini liked Cheetos and chocolate pudding and a number of his own favorite treats.

I went back to school on the east coast that fall and left Mini in Erik’s care. Whenever I called I could hear a faint crunching sound in the background.

“Are you feeding the cat Cheetos again?” I’d ask.

“Um… no?” was his weak reply.

But I had my answer soon enough. I returned home for winter break to find Mini the size of a smallish Buick. Not fat, exactly, just really… solid.

When we moved to our first apartment as a married couple my grandma baked us several dozen of her famous sugar cookies. Mini chewed through the plastic bag to get to them, though I couldn’t blame him. They were delicious. He also found his way into a bag of hamburger buns and a box of dry rice.

Over the years his name took on a sort of gangster quality, like “Tiny,” the mob enforcer who weighs 425 lbs.

But he was beautiful, and he knew it. Despite his size, he had feminine little paws and a slight prance to his step. With his long, well-groomed white fur, decorative spots, and a sprinkling of sassitude, it was clear that if Mini were a person he definitely would have been metrosexual.

And he liked being the center of attention. Each year at our Christmas party he waited until the Beam Punch had been flowing for an hour or so before sashaying into the living room and plopping belly-up and spread-eagle on the floor.

“Take it all in,” he seemed to say to our surprised guests. “It comes but once a year.”

And each night Mini waited until we were almost asleep before kneading our unsuspecting stomachs with the full force of his weight on his tiny paws. Erik coined it “stab poking,” which seemed redundant until you experienced it.

Mini formed a special bond with Jack. He tolerated any pat Jack was able to give, and a few tail pulls and failed attempts to carry or “ride” him.

Every time Jack cried, Mini came to check in on him, bouncing into the room with a sweet little “mew.”

Jack took Mini’s passing the hardest, and asked me if cats get to go to heaven. “What kind of place would it be if they didn’t?” I said.

The only other person he knows who went to heaven was my grandma, who loved cats as much as he does.

“I bet Nana is patting Mini in heaven right now,” Jack said.

I bet she is. Maybe she even made some sugar cookies, this time just for him.

You rocked, Mini. Thanks for the good times.

Oh-9, Oh-9, Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-9...

2008-07-24T22:10:00.006-05:00

I had my very first "Senior Portrait" shoot today. I was so incredibly nervous -- mostly, I figured out, because I have no idea what all the young kids want nowadays. Looking at other photogs' samples I became a little distraught. "I can't put a teenage girl in a Hustler pose," I said. "I can't airbrush some perfectly fine kid into oblivion."

So I decided to approach it like I have weddings: Do what I know how to do, and produce photos that I would like. Some of them turned out pretty nontraditional, like this one:

I took her to this abandoned field during the "magic hour" before dusk. The lighting and the girl were both gorgeous; it wasn't hard.

This was another one of my favorites. She was as uncomfortable posing as I was posing her, so she kept breaking out into this adorable embarrassed teenage laugh, which gave great expression to the photos.

Some were a little more old school. I present to you:

That's one for dad's desk. Plain and simple.

I like the sweet-n-gritty in this shot:

Between you and me, here's one of my competitors -- the self-proclaimed HQ for the Class of 2009. I have yet to figure out how to do the flaming card/aces in the sunglasses effect, so I don't think I'm quite in his league. But I'll get there, dammit, I'll get there.

Bon soir, mes amies.

Turquoise beauties

2008-07-21T21:24:00.003-05:00

Took this one at Circus World Museum. I love the ladies on the antique circus wagons. Righteous but luscious, right? I think I might put this one up in my new office.

P-A-R-K it

2008-07-20T09:34:00.002-05:00

Nothing much to say -- I took this while waiting for Erik to pull the car around the block in downtown St. Paul. I like the texture and color and gritty imperfection of a cityscape.

You know we belong to the land

2008-07-19T21:02:00.000-05:00

I made my mother-in-law pull over in the almost-rain so I could get this shot on the highway shoulder in North Dakota. I don't think she saw what I saw because she said something to the effect of, "Um, Christina, I don't understand what you're doing..." but this is everything I love about the North Dakota landscape. I didn't appreciate it when I lived there, but it's embossed on some part of me and I fall to pieces when I look out the window and see this now.

Reagan Ruth

2008-07-18T14:10:00.011-05:00

So I returned from vacation, and good lord, did I get a lot of crap for not updating my photo blog as of late. A) Can't a girl take a vacation? and B) Someone actually reads this thing?

I filled a 2 GB card with photos from the trip, everything from the boys tubing to my husband's 94-year-old grandma to the ND landscape to weird trucks-in-the-sideview-mirror shots. I'll stagger them throughout the coming week.

The first installment are some I'm really excited about: My longtime friend Christina's five-year-old daughter Reagan. It was especially fun because she looks so much like Christina did at that age, when I first met her at J. Nelson Kelly. And she has a little playhouse in her backyard, just like Christina did. And she was wearing Christina's completely '80s plastic heart bracelet. And she was sassy and hilarious, just like her mom.

As soon as Erik's able to I'll be putting up a gallery on my website of all the photos, but here are a few of my favorites:

Yeah, she's totally fake sleeping in that last shot -- you can tell by the super-scrunchy eyes -- but adorable, nontheless. Thanks, Christina!

Salamander & Jollie Ollie

2008-06-27T19:51:00.008-05:00

I was at Circus World Museum today with the boys, and while walking from a kids circus in one building to a clown show in another, it started to rain. We ducked into an old Ringling Brothers storage house that I'd never been in before, and good Lord, it was an entire building full of circus dioramas.

A) Dioramas are one of my secret little joys in life, and

B) I've been to Circus World a dozen times before; how had I missed this??

I could have spent hours in there, but the boys were less transfixed than I was. The snake charming woman in this image was probably and inch and a half tall, to give you some scale.

Here's another, from a scene where a 19th century circus train has a run-in with some Indians, I think. Or they were commandeered to be part of the show. There wasn't a whole lot of explanation, but if you ask me, dioramas speak plenty well for themselves.

Last one, and I'll leave you alone:

Put me in, coach

2008-06-21T11:03:00.002-05:00

We had company all last week so I haven't updated in a while. Eli had his first t-ball game ever. He's 6-1/2, but on a team with 7- and 8 year-olds, many of whom have been in t-ball since they were 4. But he will not be moved. After having tried every sport the Parks & Rec Department has to offer, he said to me the other day, "You know what, mom? I think baseball is going to be my sport."

Here he is going up to bat for the first time. He scored three runs that game, and only got out once. Many of the members of the opposing team were not particularly adept at "throwing" or "catching," but why quibble over the details.

Runaway Bunny

2008-06-14T08:33:00.003-05:00

Eli took over story time yesterday afternoon before Jack's nap. "You can pick any book you want. I'll be able to read it, no problem," he said.

Jackie picked one of his all-time favorites, the one he literally chewed half of the back cover off of when he was a baby, because he loved it so.

I snuck this picture while Eli was reading the best line from the book, the one that chokes me up a little every time:

"If you become a bird and fly away from me," said his mother, "I will be a tree that you come home to."

Floods suck.

2008-06-13T13:27:00.005-05:00

All is well at our house in Baraboo; thanks to everyone who emailed with concern. Unlike Grand Forks, there's actually some change in topography in our part of the country, so though our house is dry, it looks like this just two blocks away. And I reiterate: Floods suck. That much has not changed in the past 11 years. I saw this poor fellow come out of his house in waders:

I wanted to say something encouraging. I went through it, too. This will pass. The water will recede and you will scour your home and dry your photos and pile on the curb your mud-soaked and most intimate belongings and cry, a little, in private, but this will pass. I promise. But I realized if someone had said something like that to me the moment after I tore the caution tape from my front door and peered inside, I would probably have slapped her. Or wanted to. North Dakotans aren't generally too into slapping.

Writing that just now I realized I'll probably include it in my newspaper column next week. I better stop before I give all my best stuff away for free.

Drum + Bugle Boys

2008-06-11T14:30:00.006-05:00

The Madison Scouts Drum & Bugle Corps, a group of multi-talented and largely shirtless young men, is camped out in town preparing for their nationwide tour. Can we say mellophone? (I think.)

Bliss

2008-06-08T18:16:00.003-05:00

The peonies in my yard are so gorgeous and fragrant this year that I feel I don't fully deserve them in my life. We're in the middle of an awful storm -- we spent the entire afternoon yesterday in the basement during five consecutive tornado warnings -- and today it's raining like nobody's business. Peonies are hardy but sensitive creatures, their giant blooms already nearly too heavy for the plant supporting them, so I worried they might not make it through the storm. I ran out in the rain and clipped six or eight more blossoms, putting them in little vases around the house. I played with the "curves" of this image in PhotoShop until the background didn't show. She deserves nothing less.

Please... do come in.

2008-06-06T15:10:00.004-05:00

Rotund animals are, for me, one of life's simple pleasures. This fine specimen makes his home at the local zoo. The prairie dog display is a small open pit where the little guys alternately scurry in and out of their holes and sit on their giant round bottoms. It's like a little Coloseum, where we zoo visitors are the spectators -- only in a nice way, a way that validates and encourages their adorable existence.

Another one, for your viewing pleasure:

Here two prairie dogs were having a dialogue. They were either saying, "Okay, we'll just sit here as if nothing is new with the world, and then when they least expect it we'll let out these urgent high pitch chattery screeches that will scare the bejesus out of them because they thought prairie dogs were one of those animals without vocal cords, like zebras," OR the one in the back is saying to the one in the front, "You should stand in front of me for the picture because you're the skinny one and I don't want my butt to show."

I think it was John Michael Montgomery

2008-06-05T00:39:00.004-05:00

This is cheating a little because I actually took it on the job. I shot this at a wedding last weekend, and since then I've been tackling the exhausting task of sorting and editing the hundreds and hundreds of photos from that day, all while getting ready for four photo shoots this weekend. So I'm tuckered out.

But I've been really happy with the work I've been producing "professionally" lately, and my clients have been even happier. Which feels great, especially when I'm documenting something as momentous as a wedding. Erik and I had a low-key wedding (all right, "shotgun" is a better descriptor) and never hired anyone to do anything. But if we had planned it, I would have spent a boatload on a good photographer and had, like, daisies and a Dairy Queen cake. It's that important.

It's late and I'm rambling. But I have to include a little love note to my new f2.8 lens, which has produced amazing low-light photos at the last two weddings I shot. Worth every cent.

Hot pink hula

2008-06-03T20:08:00.002-05:00

I was impressed with both this girl's mad hula skills and her hot pink hoop. I recently discovered I rock at hula hooping... on the Wii Fit. In actual life, this girl would hula me into oblivion.

Mysteries of the Universe: 1

2008-06-01T23:14:00.006-05:00

During a family walk in town this weekend, Erik calmly noted, "Hey look, buns."

And there they were, next to a tree trunk on the burm: Buns. It was an assortment of the hamburger and hotdog varities, some still in tact, some split apart.

Who placed them there? Why were they rejected? Were they going to be retrieved later? If so, by whom?

So many questions, so few answers. Okay, no answers. Thus begins my "Mysteries of the Universe" series, which will document questionables and curiosities as they arise, when I have my camera on my person.

Feel free to post theories about the buns. They haunt me still.

I love you forever... or until you take a dump on me

2008-05-31T11:55:00.000-05:00

Jackie loves animals, or "aminals" as he still calls them. On a walk by the Wisconsin River he found a caterpillar, pictured on his sleeve.

"I love you caterpillar, forever and ever," he professed, patting it gently. "You are so fuzzy and awesome."

He brought it to a nearby playground. He brought in the car on the way home.

Then suddenly I heard, "Eewww!" from the back seat.

"Lookit!" he said, holding up his chubby index finger to reveal a little brown blob.

"It pooped on you," I said. "We'll wipe it off when we get home."

A moment later he announced, "I threw my caterpillar out the window."

"That wasn't very nice. I thought you loved him."

"Yeah, but he pooped on me."

"That's what animals do. They poop wherever they want."

"Well, he didn't have to do it on me."

How much for the baby?

2008-05-30T17:45:00.004-05:00

My neighbor has had what appears to be a fairly unsuccessful yard sale going on for the past couple of days. Today I noticed he was placing his baby in the various baby contraptions on the lawn, as if to say, "Look, they're still good!"

Once I posted this photo I realized it had a really dark mood look to it. But I'm guessing there's something kind of dark and sad behind the yard sale. It's a loud and poor and messy family whose struggles and strange visitors often spill out onto the sidewalk. Plus, why would you sell all of your baby things when you still have a baby?

Like a monkey, or a cat

2008-05-28T19:29:00.003-05:00

Eli has taken up tree climbing. The only climbable one in our yard is a young ash, or poplar, or something small and bendy that seems to cry out, "Why me?..." whenever Eli starts his ascent.

Here, you see his tree-climbing face. It says to me, "Oh, yeah, I'm gonna boy you up, tree. You best watch out."

Wherein I talk about boobs and Bob Dylan

2008-05-27T21:08:00.014-05:00

I spent the weekend on the edge of the Iron Range in northwest Minnesota, searching for Bob Dylan.

Since my parents moved to the area five years ago, I’ve known it was the red iron ore soil that birthed Dylan – and the same place from which he turned his back and tried to cut his tangled ties.

I'm an overthinker, especially when it comes to issues of home and memory and shared history and song lyrics, so my brain hurts a little from taking it all in. But here are a few highlights:

First of all, my sister and I went to the Dylan Days music fest together and saw some awesome and gritty old folkies, and we made these awesomely gritty t-shirts:

In case you can't read them, they say, "ROCK ON/IRON ON," which we figured was an Iron Range pun. Somehow. We surprisingly got beaucoup compliments on the shirts in Hibbing, Bob's hometown and site of the show, but I got the feeling nobody really got it but us. A lot of things are like that with our family.

A side note: My sister did the actual ironing on, which commenced by really effing my shirt up. The "r" and the "c" in "ROCK" are both backward, which at first I was a little pissed about but later decided made it more authentically "Range." Also, on the ride to Hibbing my sister kept staring at my boob, and I said, "Why are you staring at my boob?" and she said sorta glumly, "Your 'R' is peeling off." So I said, "Oh, I'm sorry my boob is disappointing you," and she said, "I'm probably the first one who's ever been disappointed by that boob." And I laughed, really hard.

A secondary side note: Before the folk concert, in front of Hibbing High School, we asked a guy to take the above picture of us in our shirts. I said, "Be sure to include the full majesty of our homemade shirts," and some big local guy walking by said, "Huh. That won't be hard."

THIS JUST IN: I'm hearing from my sister via text that the entire word "IRON" came off her shirt in the wash, and it now says, "ROCK ON... ON." Now that's a disappointment.

We found the house where Dylan grew up, appropriately on this street:

...and saw the current owners' garage door mural "honoring" him:

The next day we visited -- I'm not making this up -- a museum called "Ironworld," situated on the rim of the world's largest open mine pit.

Pretty, but also pretty messed up. Nearly 2 billion tons of earth were dug out over the past 100 years to make this "scenery."

Ironworld did have a good exhibit about Dylan, and his complicated relationship with his hometown. Good stuff if you're headed toward the Range.

An original (not revisited) sign from Highway 61:

I probably should have saved some of these for another post. We might be getting some more pictures of my foliage tomorrow.

The symbol of first love

2008-05-22T10:36:00.004-05:00

I'm taking the boys to visit my parents for the long weekend, and sadly I think I'm going to miss my lilac bush's moment of full glory. (See the buds on the tip, about ready to unclench their little purple fists?)

My grandma had an enormous lilac bush in her backyard and I found it just entrancing, and I always said when I had a home of my own I would get one. So the first Mother's Day in our first house, Erik planted one for me.

Additionally, it's further proof that I can grow a living thing without causing it irreparable damage or death. As supporting evidence, I cite the peace lily I've had for nearly one (1) year in my dining room, and my two (2) kids. The three doomed cactuses from my sixth grade bedroom are beyond the statute of limitations.

Happy Memorial Day. I hope to post some photos from the Hibbing DylanFest when I return.

These are the eggs the Lord has made

2008-05-21T09:30:00.001-05:00

So I got these odd-brand eggs from Aldi, which is another post in and of itself because that's such a wacky place to shop, and I open the carton to find this:

And I was like, "Oh, great, Jesus eggs."

But then after making my omelet I closed the carton, and check out what as on the outside:

I was kind of on the fence about faith already, and now it seems even the eggs are testing my compass.