Ahh, memories

This morning, when I was waiting for the little people to arise, I was laying in bed with my husband reminiscing about when we lived in West Duluth. It's where we met, where we fell in love, and started this insane family. We have only lived on the east side for 4 years.

My husband started out as my neighbor. He didn't know it. He just thought he was my kid's hockey coach. I was married to someone else. He was recently divorced. We both had small children. I saw him one day, and knew he was the guy for me. I began going the long way home to drive past his house and look in the window (which I now know was fruitless because it was Rudy's room I was trying to sneak a peek into.) I walked my dog past his house 5 or 6 times a day. Soon, we were shacking up, and there was a pathworn in the grass between our 2 houses.

Eventually, I was divorced. I was living with Brian in his house in West Duluth. We were the big fish in a little pond. We were the only people in a 6 block radius that made over 60K apiece. We did things like buy new motorcycles on a whim, and our neighbors marvelled at us. Weird, huh? But we both worked hard and often.

We used to shoot our neighbor across the street. He was often freaked out on meth, yelling at nothing and throwing things in his driveway. He was the only 48 year old I have ever known who regularly hung out with 19 and 20-year-olds, smoked dope in his driveway, and had a bumpin' system in his 1989 Nissan Sentra. He was awesome, and we liked to shoot him. We called him Captain Dipshit, because that's what he was. We had a perfect shot from our bedroom window, where I had cut a flap just big enough for the barrel of the BB gun. He'd be out in his driveway, working on his car late at night, with the stereo blasting. Nevermind all the little kids in the neighborhood trying to sleep. Captain Dipshit would be freaking out, doing his Dipshitty things like randomly yelling and throwing tools. So, for fun, we would position the BB gun, let fly, and then watch as he freaked out even more.

I don't think we ever hit him. But the sound of BBs bouncing off the non-running cars in his driveway drove him batty, and set off new rounds of freakouts. It was hysterical.

Captain Dipshit also built a fountain in his yard. For the longest time, it was just a hole he was digging. We thought it was a grave, and we were waiting for some of the neighborhood kids to come up missing. Eventually though, it had a liner in it, some plastic swans, and multi-colored underwater lights. Just what every crackhead needs.

After we talked to him several times about barrelling out of his driveway when the little kids were rollerblading and riding their bikes on the sidewalks, and he still continued to speed in and out of his drive like a bat out of hell, I collected a good bag full of dogshit and launched it into his fountain. Wonder what those colored lights did to the flotilla of dog turds?

Soon after that, we moved to Woodland. We behave here. Its a nice place to live and we are no longer the big fish. We are middle of the road. We keep quiet and the kids play nicely. But sometimes I miss the chaos and noise of West Duluth, and even Captain Dipshit.

Something's Stinky on Austin Street

The dog, who is the bane of my existence as far as cleaning the house goes, gets let out at 4AM. Much like a scene from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, animals scatter from the summer street beside our house, which I affectionately refer to as the "pothole" as he carouses through the woods. Today though, the bastard found a nest of skunks. DH was smart enough to let him in to eat his breakfast, which means everything inside my house reeks like skunk too.

Nice way to wake up at 5AM, coughing and snotting all over the place because the reek is so thick in my bedroom that I can't breathe.

Fortunately for me, the oldest boy begged 60$ from me just yesterday for a weekend trip to Minneapolis with his youth group. I think I've got a couple bottles of peroxide and some Dawn dishsoap that says he will earn that money. Meanwhile, I plan to sit on the porch and drink margaritas all day and then fry fish for DH for supper.

Skunk and fish...maybe I should think about an air freshener? So then at least it will be flowery skunk and fish.

Does fat make you Fry?

Yesterday I ventured to the beach. This is a first since the last 3 kids were born, since I no longer had anything resembling a bathing suit body. Not that anyone cares what a mommy of 7 looks like in a swimsuit except for me, but it was a real bash on the shiny little ego. So, yeah. I went to the beach and watched the little whippersnappers play in the water and the sand at Park Point. I think we were the only native Duluthians there, everyone else was a tourist. How does that happen?!

At the beach, I relished in peace and quiet for an entire hour and a half. I sat in the sand and read a book. I went in the water when I got hot or had to pee. I watched the little kids to make sure they weren't facedown in the surf too long.

And then we went home and I discovered that my back was the color of the sunset. It was also the same temperature. I have never had a sunburn in my life, and I was wondering if it was some hormonal change brought about by 3 pregnancies in the past 4 years. Or was it just that the additional 25 pounds I have gained and kept over those pregnancies fries a little easier. Bacon wouldn't be bacon without the fat, right? Would it fry as easily? Either way, its time for me to quit making excuses and ditch that weight. Because I don't want to ever fry like this again.

It feels like someone ripped a thousand bandaids off my skin fast, that prickly, tingly, ouchie feeling. I couldn't sleep with it. I can't shower with it. I soaked in a cool tub for an hour and it still stings. So fat begone, I don't want to hurt no more!

The idea

So I've had sucess as a poet. I am a semester into my MFA, I've won a couple contests and had two chapbooks published. Ever after a new challenge, I have this idea brewing for a novel.
Its suspenseful. Its got a good heroine. Its got a semi-believable plot. I don't know if it will ever manifest itself as a novel, or even a story, but I feel like I owe it to the characters to give it a shot. But writing fiction is scary. The line between fiction and reality is so blurry, that sometimes I forget what's real and what's not. Is this character me? Is she someone I want to be? Is her situation one I long for, on some other plane?
Fiction is scary territory, especially for someone used to writing poetry. Poetry is easy. You take a situation and make it universal, or at least relatable, for other people. There is an emotional connection between a poet and her readers. Fiction is less personal. Its made up, after all.
But I think I'm going to write this. I scribbled some nonsense down while I was on vacation one morning while Brian took the kids fishing and the baby was asleep. It sounds like something you read on the back of one of the grocery-store novels, the ones the best-selling authors write. The ones desperate housewives pay 9.99 for at the checkout counter.
And tonight as I listen to the fireworks, I feel this character calling to me, telling me to write it down. I know what she wants to do. I just have to let her do it.

keeping Nora dry

Keeping Nora out of the lake while we were on vacation was like keeping flies off a big, fresh, stinky pile of shit. We went so far as to hook the screen door when we were going somewhere to keep her from venturing outdoors.
It was fine when she was wearing her suitie and someone was watching her. Even if we weren't going anywhere. I personally think Lake Vermillion is down a couple inches for all the water she sucked up, both via her mouth and into her diapers. Super-absorbency at its finest is a Huggie that weighs more than my child, yet refuses to leak. I was impressed.
Yep, we were going to dinner one night, and then, on my head-count, I was one short. Guess where she was, in her only "nice" clothes? Waist deep in the water, sand gritting in her crack. Loveley.
The best, though, was after twenty four hours of heavy rains, there were flash flood type situations. Nora, gone again. Where ever could she be? She couldn't make it to the lake, for the current. But yes, there she is. Sitting in the 4 inch deep puddle in the front yard, six ducks swimming around her. She's happy and laughing, so what do I care? Until I see her bend over and drink directly out of the puddle that these same six ducks keep shitting in. Real nice, girl. It will be a horror story to tell her future suitors, for sure.

Living half a block from a liquor store has its disadvantages...like realizing its Sunday, and they are not open on Sunday. Damn you, convenience, for making me so comfortable!
I like drinks with umbrellas in them. Some folks call them girl drinks, but I prefer to call them "summer drinks." So tough persona aside, I sip things that are pink and fruity during the hotter months. Margaritas are good, pina coladas are better. But liquor creeps up on me. I get drunk and ambitious. I do things like landscape the front yard, remodel the kitchen, and read my books from the library.
So, this is a bad thing? you say. Au contraire! Its awesome! Whoever said liquor was a bad thing didn't know about my friend Moderation. I don't drink til I am falling-down, slurring-words drunk. I just drink until I can't feel the grit of dog-hair under my feet. I drink until the shrieks of the children are muted: I can still hear them. I know they are near. I know that they are fighting. I just don't care.
So while the short months of summer wander through Minnesota, expect to find me tipsy and busy, just not usually on Sundays. After all, the liquor store is closed, and I don't have the foresight to plan my drunks. They just seem to happen.

vacation overload

Is there such a thing as vacation overload? It looks like I am going to find out!
My professional license lapsed as of midnight on the 30th and my boss informed me I won't be allowed to come back to work without it. Which would be ok if they would keep the paychecks coming, but alas...I am without!
The funny thing about this whole thing is that ITS NOT MY FAULT. I'm jacked, and I didn't do anything wrong for once. See, about six weeks ago, I got a little blue card in the mail, and this little blue card states EXPLICITLY that I will be able to renew my license until midnight on the 30th of June. So when, on the 30th of June, I went online to renew my license at 12:15 in the AFTERNOON, with nearly 12 hours remaining, I was astounded to find out that the cutoff for this renewal was NOON.
I call bullshit. I called my boss, who informed me that I was Out of Luck Chuck, that without a valid license I would be unable to return to work. Bullshit abounds, especially when she says I will be subject to disciplinary actions. HA! Lawyer on speed dial, I say. But who can I take down?
The state of MN for shutting down their government in hopes of getting a budget approval? SMDC/Essentia for giving their employees the ole middle finger yet again? Who has the deeper pockets? Who wants to pay for my lost wages, the undue stress of punitive action?
Somebody's going down, and it ain't gonna be me. I will be patient, I will lay in wait, and when the throat is exposed, I will strike!
Who likes bad press???