MadgeWorld

Requiem aeternam -- Amy Alford.

2008-09-13T20:32:00.007-05:00

Sometimes life just smacks you in the face and says, stop being so self-centered. Yeah, that's today. Checking in on Facebook I find out that beautiful Amy Alford died today. Lovely wife, mother of two, daughter, sister, friend to many.

I knew Amy from our days at Carmichael Lynch. She worked in the Mac Studio coordinating and managing jobs -- a thankless task that she joyfully tackled every day. Later, she made the switch to Project Management and as the low gal on the totem pole she had to work on Northwest Airlines. OK. I can say it now: NWA was one of the worst clients ever. Maybe in the whole world. Amy kicked their ass every day and did it with a huge smile. That amazing smile that could knock your socks off.

After Amy had baby #1, she decided to give up the glamour and excitement of cranking out NWA sale ads week after week. Column A: adorable baby. Column B: cranky client. That's what you call a no brainer decision.

The last time I saw her was at Rachel and Karen's wedding. She was glowing, happy and laughing -- from the fun of seeing old friends, and maybe gas from being preggers again.

Oh, Amy, we will miss your off-kilter sense of humor and sheer love of life.

Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.

Don't mind me. . .

2008-08-25T01:20:00.003-05:00

I'm really late. I'm just sneaking in the back door long after curfew. Hoping that no one notices. Creeping quietly up the steps so I don't wake anyone up. But, who cares?
Don't pay me no nevermind.
Just carry on.
As you were.
Smoke 'em if you've got 'em.

Q: Where did you go?
A: Out.
Q: What did you do?
A: Nothing.

I worked on a big pile of stuff. The pile eventually got thrown away. And now, we're doing it all over again. Sounds like the myth of
Sisyphus.

Tommy and LeAnn got married.

I saw the capitalist system at work at an abandoned building along Lake Superior.

We celebrated the Feast of the Assumption of the BVM at this church in Tofori, Italy with Doris and Doug. BVM = Blessed Virgin Mary, for all you pagans out there.

I visited Nora in Brooklyn.

I rode the light rail and didn't get stabbed.

I saw Foghorn Leghorn at the Minnesota State Fair and considered becoming an animal liberation activist.

How do you spell Tucson? Tuscon. Saw it. Sweated.

Saw the Eiffel Tower. It's true. The French don't believe in deodorant.

Had a birthday party for our mama. She's only 90.

And not in that order.
Just the usual for the past 12 months or so. Went places. Irritated some people. Made things. Read some books. The years fly by. It's the days and nights that seem long.

Listening to: iTunes Party Shuffle playing the Buena Vista Social Club. Goes nicely with the vanilla ice cream with pecans and chocolate sauce.

What have you been up to?

What I missed V. 2 or proof The Husband exists.

2008-07-21T08:01:00.000-05:00

Note: once upon a time. I wrote this. Saved it. forgot to post it. . . get in the Way Back Machine. and hopefully enjoy the trip.

During that time when Blogging wasn't happening -- When I was busy cataloging my Donna Summer record collection -- things happened.

Here's one.

Paddy finished his military commitment and came home in December. Surprise! I wasn't expecting you, so, sorry, you missed Christmas out West and got to stay home and house sit. {Thanks for emptying the litter box and watering the plants.}

You didn't miss much because The Denver Blizzard of '06 spoiled things for everyone.

Always trying to make up for lost time -- how about a trip West in January to visit The Husband a.k.a. Your Pappy. He may never show up at social events, but there is indeed a Mr. Madge. To put all the doubters out there to rest, he does exist and here he is in all his curmudgeonly glory.

My Addiction.

2007-06-24T09:39:00.001-05:00

Bachman's.
Uncommon Garden.
Tangletown Gardens.
Even K-Mart has a garden center. I simply can't resist. Gotta have it every weekend. Dirt. Muck. Moving plants from one corner of the yard to another, striving for the perfect balance of color and texture. And rarely achieving it.

Seed catalogs in February are required reading.

A dimestore shrink told me it's because my kids are grown and I need something to focus on. Possibly. I'd rather think it's because plants don't talk back.

It could be genetics though.

Here's my mother in her commmunity garden plot. She's always had a garden growing. Even our Pillsbury Avenue backyard {long, long ago} had a few flowers that survived the wretched children.

Let's go back another generation. Here's my grampa, E.T. Farley in his backyard on Clinton Avenue. A retired teacher, he hung out at home while gramma {a.k.a. The Madam} went to work at Power's Department store. See that cane? He'd usually be sitting in that metal chair and would point at spots we missed with the pushmower. For weeds, he'd bust out the "Killer Kane". A strange device -- a tube filled with water plus a wafer of poison -- that dispensed a shot of herbicide on dandelions. Deadly! And we loved it.

But wait, let's go back even further.

The Madam didn't have the gardening bug, but her mother {my great gramma} did. And here's great gramma with The Madam's sister Ada, in her California garden.

So, when I obsess on turning this . . .

into this. . .

it's because I can't help myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a gardenn to tend.

Slowly catching up on the events in MadgeWorld while listening to: Living on a thin Line by The Kinks from The Sopranos soundtrack.

What We Missed. V.1

2007-06-24T08:18:00.000-05:00

What's a mother to do? So many interesting moments and not enough time to comment. It's been so long since we visited MadgeWorld that we forgot our password. We shall attempt to play catch up.

You may know how much we loath fake holidays.
Like Grandparent's Day.
Sweetheart's Day.
Office Administration Helper Day.
However, we bow to convention and acknowledge that Mother's day has passed. If we were in the mood to comment, this is what we'd say.

How the hell did this group of benignly neglected children. . .

. . . grow up without being incarcarated, or appearing on a "missing" poster?

Perhaps on Mother's Day we should celebrate the offspring's successful arrival into adulthood in spite of our parenting style. One might describe it as laissez faire crossed with a little Machiavelli. Let us take this opportunity, weeks after Mother's Day, to publicly apologize:
- Austin: Sorry about putting BenGay on your broken leg and telling you it would feel better in the morning. We thought you were faking. No wonder you don't trust us.
- Nora: Sorry about being chronically late to pick you up. Especially that time in the winter when you had to wait outside with wet hair after swimming practice. That may explain your neurosis about being on time. It doesn't explain the swearing.
- Chronic nagging about homework. Paddy, we were desperate. Forgive. But what's up with the tattoos?
- Meggie: For the low-rent orthodontist. The wires that came undone and skewered your tongue. Ouch. We admit fault. Additional piercings optional.

What's a mother to do? Being careful not to smack of cheap sentimentality-- you all make me proud to be your mama. Now, stand up straight, get a job and get your life in order.

Listening to: Music from La Dolce Vita by Nino Rota

Poetry in Motion

2007-04-29T08:24:00.000-05:00

Exhibit A.

How the hell did I miss out on National Poetry month? Of course, it is April so every hack journalist can quote “The Wasteland” and feel smart about things sprouting out of muck. I’ve done it myself. Only two more days of April and it’s all over and not once did I put pen to paper, digits to keypad or mind to rhyme. Sad.
Poetry should be part of everyday reading. Just like the newspaper. Nothing more lovely than a well-written poem – that can smack you in the head with how perfect it is.

I’ve quoted this before, by William Carlos Williams, but who cares:
“It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.“

What’s found there? In a poem? Whatever it is you happen to need, I say. Whether it’s simplicity, humor, beauty, truth – all that college stuff and more.

How about this everyday Haiku (unearthed from MadgeWorld archives)by one Paddy McInerny, circa 1997.

The angry cat died.
No one liked it anyway.
Wrap it in burlap.

Way to cut to the chase, Paddy. I needed that.

On other springtime fronts: the calla lily bulbs -- stored under the laundry tubs in an old bucket -- started to sprout. So I threw them into some pots on the windowsill and left them to their own devices. The little buggers did a T.S. Elliot on me and actually bloomed.

Exhibit B.

I give you Exhibit B: my calla lilies with store bought tulips. Poetic results -- dare I say.

Sisterhood

2007-04-22T08:23:00.000-05:00

My sister and I are separated by barely five years. (June, 1954 and July, 1949) When we were younger no one would have picked us out of a crowd as even related. Now, as we age, we're growing into the same person. Kind of like the viewfinder in an old camera: as you twist it into focus the blurry halves snap into one. Independently we've picked out the same glasses, gotten the same haircut, and chosen the same shoes. Luckily we've picked different husbands. But, oddly, we're now starting to take the same photographs.

Exhibit A:
Clover in Muir Woods.
Check out her photos:

Cue the walking-away-shot.

Exhibit B.
The Foggy Vineyard Shot.
Rita's view.

Lowest common denominator hacks? Or Twilight Zone shared visionaries? You be the judge.

Listening to: Sunday Morning Coming Down, Kris Kristofferson.
Enjoying: The calm before the storm.

Shout Hallelujah!

2007-04-07T23:11:00.000-05:00

Or just say it. We don't really shout hallelujah here in Minnesota. We are far too polite. In fact, we'd rather say alleluia. But, let's not argue semantics.

We won't say where we've been for the past three months -- that is a tale to be told sometime soon. Let's just revel in some heavy nostalgia for Easters Past -- when Easter was a religious holiday not just an occasion for Brunch with some schmutz dressed up like the Easter Bunny.

Here's our Mother. Looking pretty in a soft, slightly fuzzy coat that she made herself. Can't see the hat very well, but she made that, too. And the dress. Maybe even her underware. Everything homemade but the white gloves. But given enough time, she probably could have made those, too. Yes, that's when a mom was not just a mom, but a seamstress, milliner, cook, nursemaid, gardener, and round the clock ego-bolsterer. Hallelujah, how the heck did she do it without massive amounts of alcohol and cigs? I'd be institutionalized or incarcerated.

Here's our Father. And four of the nine siblings. Backyard at the family manor in south Minneapolis just one block from Incarnation Church--known as the Cradle of Catholicism. (OK. I went to Mass there tonight.) Yeah, we're styling in outfits that our Mother made. There's Joe, the pathetic little guy with glasses. Dig those highwater pants and little brown boots. Rita and I have matching dresses. John in the rear goofing around. Probably looking at Dennis or the "baby" (cause there was always a baby around).

The drill was: First go to Mass. Then find the Easter Basket. Then breakfast--dad cooked and he set the table the night before. There was always a centerpiece of dyed eggs in cellophane grass along with Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs. Joy of Joys. Good chocolate. Dad's special treat. Cause some things can't be delegated to the Easter Bunny.

Deo Gratias.

Listening to: Jazz Image with Leigh Hammond.
Enjoying: Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs and a chilled Pino Grigot.

Nora's Big Adventure -- Christmas '06

2007-01-05T22:32:00.000-06:00

A Christmas holiday where we willingly split up the family was bound to go wrong somewhere. One daughter and son left behind in Minneapolis while the other half of The Offspring head west to Palm Springs. . . Yes, the Gods of Tradition looked down. Saw that it was bad. Chaos ensued.

The Gods of Tradition prefer White Christmas, Bing Crosby, and Ella Fitzgerald singing Christmas in Vermont, Johnny Mathis singing We need a Little Christmas. Hell, they even prefer John Lee Hooker singing Blues for Christmas. Even though the Baby Jesus was born in a desert, it doesn't mean that you abandon your Midwest traditions and head to California.

Christmas 2006 -- aka: (No) Trains, Planes and Automobiles. Substitute crack smoking moms on a greyhound bus for John Candy's accordian-playing polka band in the back of a van and you've got an idea of Nora's journey west.

Unfortunatly, this happened to Nora (and 3,000 other people).
The rest of the journey was designed by Rube Goldberg.

Here's the Reader's Digest version:
Wednesday, Dec. 20.
- Nora leaves Laguardia airport for Palm Springs via Denver.
- Flight cancelled. Airport eventually closed. For 5 days.
- Nora sleeps in the airport.
Thursday, Dec. 21.
- Colleague who works in Denver branch office rescues her for 1 night.
Friday, Dec. 22.
- Spends day in Greyhound Bus Depot waiting to elbow her way onto a bus from Denver to Vegas.
- Spends night on bus. Let's not discuss the fact she was making out with her seat mate, a science nerd grad student. OK. Mom's don't need to know that.
Saturday, Dec. 23
- Arrives in Vegas in the morning. Cab to airport. Flight to Phoenix.
- Misses early connection in Phoenix to Palm Springs.
- Gets 6:30 flight. Arrives in Palm Springs at 8 pm.
Sunday, Dec. 24
- Spend the day on the phone w/ United Airlines tracking baggage. (Swear to never, never, ever in a million years fly on United Airlines. Ever again. Never.)
Monday, Dec. 25
- Drive to Ontario, CA airport to fetch her baggage. 97 miles each way. This is quality, family time with Nora, Austin and Lorelei.
AND we discover that the dinosaur park from Pee Wee's Big Adventure is a real place. On Interstate 10, Cabazon, California.

Strangely, there are a lot of people out on the highways on Christmas Day and a fair number stop to visit the Dinosaurs. The gift shop INSIDE the dino is open. I purchase 2 postcards for .38 and think about having a white Christmas. Next year.

Hideously Merry

2006-12-30T17:09:00.000-06:00

Look what I made! I can feel the envy emanating from all of you! You want a Hello Kitty stocking embellished with orange poodle fur (ersatz poodle fur, but what the hey)! Admit it.

Q. Madge, what's your inspiration for something so, well . . . unique?

A. Well, I have long been fascinated with the online "crafting" community. It all started when a woman at work emailed me a pattern for a knitted kitten.

I checked out the designer's site. Then, I merrily followed her links to places like this: Wee Wonderfuls. And this. And this. And it was pretty much all over then.

Q. So, Madge, aside from the, er {clearing throat sound} what have you created?

A. Um. Well. I'm almost done with this. And I made a scarf that looks like an orange caterpillar.

Q. Yes. Good job. So, what's next, Madge?

A. I'll be taking orders for next year's stockings. 11 months might be the right amount of time. I may not have my own online shop, but I can dream, can't I?

Give me TWO MORE!

2006-12-01T21:05:00.000-06:00

Friday
1 December
9:12 pm
We just returned from the gym. Now we're burning it up with NetFlix, the cats and a cup of tea. Yes, that's how we roll on Friday night. The gym is probably the only place where it's acceptable for someone other than The Husband to tell you to keep your chest up and shoulders down!

Watching: When We Were Kings
Enjoying: The anti-oxidant power of green tea

What's the fuss?

2006-11-29T21:00:00.000-06:00

Wednesday November 29
9:49 pm
12 degrees

There's been a lot of press lately about MySpace. Occasionally {we admit it} we're a little behind the trend curve. So, we decided to take the plunge and find out for ourselves what parents are so darn up in arms about. So, off we went into the nether regions of the internet. And here we are warts and all.

If we could figure out how to use the interface, our page would be way more interesting. As it is, we're lucky to have a few blurbs and pictures. Friends? We needed the MySpace Help Line to figure out how to get friends. In spite of that, we have friends. Four friends. Yes, two of them are The Offspring, one is a friend and one is a friend of The Offspring whom we have never actually met in person. We've poked around MySpace and wasted a few hours that could have been spent cleaning the toilet or picking up dustballs. We see pages with over 100 friends! 100 friends! How can that be. Apparently, Friends sounds better than Acquaintences or Hangers-on. Mayhap our lack of friends has something to do with our decidedly arty and definitely unalluring photo. Would we have more friends if we showed some cleavage in the classic party pose? Whoever we stole this from has 144 friends {please don't sue us}! But, who is counting?

Our assesment? MySpace is the online equivalent of the Refrigerator Door.

Your friends walk in, check out what's posted on the 'fridge: favorite photos, random notes and messages and things to remember. It's messy, just like MySpace is messy--people just slap stuff up. Even the 'fridge has ads. See, there's the magnet for Al's Master Plumbing. Music? Well, we do have an old boom box in the kitchen. It's playing Chet Baker.

People can't comment on your 'fridge, but the comments on MySpace wouldn't qualify as profound. Actual quote"oh and saturday was really cute! haha :) i'll give you the details later" or "see you Saturday. Holler!" Yawn!

Bottom line? Our POV is: you gots nothing to worry about. Parents! Go get yourself a MySpace page! Have some fun! Stalk your children. Guaranteed to waste time and maybe even learn something along the way.

Now, if you'll pardon us, we must go to My Space, do some online mothering and put the smack down.

Listening to: Let's get Lost. Chet Baker playing on my MySpace page.

Just a Lucky So and So

2006-11-23T10:10:00.000-06:00

Thursday
November 23
40 degrees

The sun is sort of shining, the birds are singing, music's swinging. It might even get warm enough today to thaw the hose that I left curled across the front lawn. It's just a perfect day to reflect on how damn lucky I am. {When at a loss for words, defer to the music of the incomparable Ellington as sung by Ella.} Not that I'm at a loss, but I was inspired by this song on the radio earlier today.

Absolutely nothing, nothing in the whole wide world to complain about. "We've got shelter, clothing and food, we are blessed."** Not to mention clumping kitty litter. Marvelous things surround us. Is it luck or is it grace? Whatever you attribute it to, whatever God you believe in, acknowledge today, and every day, yes, we are blessed. And damn lucky besides.

**And speaking of inspiring music, check out the soundtrack to Say, Amen Somebody.

11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month

2006-11-12T00:04:00.000-06:00

In spite of being a couple of days late, let us take a moment of silence, please, to commemorate Armistice Day. On November 11, 1918 the British, French and German commanders signed the truce in the forest of Compiegne to end World War I. With almost 9 million dead the Brits and French were elated.
The Frogs mobilized 7.5 million men.
Of those, 1.3 million were killed.
4 million were wounded.
The Brits moblized 5.3 million.
Slightly less than a million killed.
1.6 million wounded. All that, in just 4 years.

Armistice is still celebrated in Britain and France. In 1938 the US Congress passed a bill to make Armistice day an American holiday, as well. A day "dedicated to the cause of world peace." Amen.

I posted this poem last year, so it is cheating a bit. But I like the poem and the poet -- Wilfred Owen. A poet and soldier, he was killed in action just a week before the war ended in some godforsaken place in France. This is an excerpt from a longer poem "Dulce et decorum est". Can you imagine him in some stinkhole trench writing poetry?

. . . If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.**"

**Translation: it is sweet and proper to die for your country.

Hoping for: A headline like the photo above, about Iraq.
Listening to: "Blue Train" Coletrane
Eating: Leftover Halloween candy - Hershey miniatures.

Basement Chronicles

2006-11-06T20:27:00.000-06:00

Monday, November 6
45 degrees
Cloudy and foggy

There's nothing I like better than a big project. The bigger and bad-ass the better. On a slow weekend, I've been known to break out the Wonderbar and start to take out a wall. The basement of MadgeWorld has been festering for around thirteen years. The scary basement. Lots of room we never used. It was {briefly} Stinky's bedroom. As the only right-handed child he was relegated to the lower level. Later it became a low-rent fitness center. And a catch-all for the detrius that comes with children moving up and out.

One day The Mister was inspired to tear down the old acoustical tile ceiling. Out with the old. Then, wait two years to bring in the new! See that little hint of a nauseating yellow ceiling?

Here's the Stephen King fireplace that regularly disgorged bats, both dead and alive. Yes, we let it fester for thirteen years. And finally we made our move.

Like the bare bulb look? Very shanty Irish. Radiators mounted in the middle of the wall? Yup, they've gotta be higher than the boiler or the hot water won't circulate. Just a little HVAC factoid brought to you by Al's Master Plumbing.

Finally, now that the kids are all gone, let's fix up the rumpus room. New ceiling, crown molding, bookshelves built to hide radiators. Add a wooden mantle to the fireplace. The cleaning products in the hearth are a nice touch, don't you think?

Paint over the dreary institutional yellow. Bring on the China Blue, Toasted Sesame Seed, Dark Raspberry, and Ripe Pear. Yummy. Thank-you Benjamin Moore! Soon, the pile of Works-In-Progress will migrate to the lower level. And if I can ever afford the carpeting it's one more project to cross off the list. I envision many Ladies Aid meetings and Stitch 'n Bitch gatherings this winter.

Like it?

Anxiously awaiting: the end of political advertising, phone messages and flyers in my door.

This is MadgeWorld and we approve this post.

Just ten years ago.

2006-10-28T21:47:00.000-05:00

If I thought the last year went fast. Well, the last ten have gone by in a whoosh. All those cliches about time healing -- they're pretty true. Mostly. Maybe not healing. Softening might be better.

On Monday, October 28, 1996. 4:55 pm
I got the 5 minute phone call that changed my life.

My nephew call me at work.
Why would he be calling me at work. At 5 o'clock?
He was calling to ask if I knew anything about the accident that put his dad, my brother, Tom, in the hospital. I knew nothing. But, boy, would it all be revealed.
Here's a recollection from 1999:

Today. Perfect. Weather wise. The kind of day that makes Minnesota worth sticking with. Perfect light. Trees glowing. Ground covered with leaves. Made certain spots luminous with light. Oh, to be able to capture it with a camera.
- Three years ago this week, my brother was lying in Ramsey {now Regions} Hospital, Intensive care, dying.
Now, a full ten years later, it's not any easier to write about it, or to think about it.

Tom's life was intense and hard -- so far from perfect. Filled with work and working out problems. Divorce problems. Money problems. Caring for his boys, filled with exuberance and energy. Trying to always do the right thing. Trying to get ahead, but never quite making it. Dying, for Tom, was just as hard as the living.

A beautiful fall day in Minnesota. Working outside. Energetically clamboring up the scaffold to help a buddy. Forgetting safety first. One misstep. A fall. A second to wonder what happened.

Ipsis, Domine, et omnibus in Christo quiescentibus, locum refrigerii, lucis et pacis, ut indulgeas, deprecamur. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.
To these, O Lord, and to all who rest in Christ, grant, we pray thee, a place of refreshment, of light and of peace. . .

As The Feast of All Saints (November 1) and All Soul's Day (November 2) approach, let us remember those who have gone before us and sleep the sleep of peace.

Listening to: The Chieftains

Just last year.

2006-10-28T20:15:00.000-05:00

Saturday 9:27 pm
40 degrees
Cloudy

Hey, Mambo. Mambo Italiano! Seems like it was just last week, not last year, that we were living la dolce vita con la nostra amica, Doris e il suo marito, Douglas, high in the Tuscan hills. {I probably got even that simple Italian phrase wrong, I've neglected the language for so long.}
Il Mulino is their little wonderland tucked between two hills high above Lucca in the little, and I mean little, town Tofori. Blink, and you miss it.

Doris left the rewarding and glamorous world of advertising, sold her house and in reverse immigration left for the Old Country. She's living her dream in the town where her mother was born. Post WWII, Doris' mother and two sisters left Italy and ended up in Milwaukee. Of all places. It's a long, long story, but Doris and The Husband bought an ancient property. Renovated it. And are now the Host and Hostess with the Mostest. You haven't vacationed in Italy unless you've been hosted by Doris.
If you don't believe me, head over and see for yourself. The best vacation ever! Il migliori di tutti!

Just a 20 minute terrifying drive away from Il Mulino is the town of Lucca. It's surrounded by an intact medieval wall with 6 gates. So. Like history? Check. Lucca's got it. Not to mention terrific food, terrific shopping {someone edited the best of Milan shops and put it on Via Fillungo} and beautiful people. Gorgeous men. Unfairly handsome.

Shopping. And resting. Mama Mia! She looks good for 88. And Rita, she looks so good the elderly gent in the photo below was flirting with her. Italians are friendly. Very friendly. Regardless of their age.

My new Italian friends. They were patient with me. "Parlo Italiano come una bambina!" Let's do it again. Real soon. It was a lovely time in a season that -- for our family -- is tinged with sadness. But more about that in another post.

Listening to: Jazz Image with Leigh Hammond on MPR.
Reading: The Devil in the White City.

Sailorz with Attitude

2006-10-10T22:31:00.000-05:00

Tuesday
October 10
10:32 pm
48 degrees. Brrr.

MadgeWorld is often the purveyor of news of the latest tends and today is no exception. Check out these Sailorz w/ Attitude--or SWA as they're known to their peeps. Dig the cool custom bling. Nothing like chain link topped off with an image of Guam. Or the Almighty Dollar sign. And talk about attitude -- nothing, I mean nothing says we-are-tough-SOBs like cammo. Top it with the latest shade of brown T-shirt, and kick ass boots -- you've got a look that just won't quit. We predict a run on military surplus stores. Soon. Anchors Aweigh, my boyz.

That's my boy-o on the left.

Listening to: Wait till you see Him, Ella Fitzgerald

I heart Astoria

2006-10-07T21:36:00.000-05:00

Photos of Queens, a great borough of NYC, were promised months ago. You'll never see the hairball the size of a shrunken head that was removed from Daughter's shower drain. Nor will you see the interior of the dorm room-squared-size apartment. Alas, Daughter has left Astoria. Home of Louis Armstrong. Birthplace of Tony Bennett. and the location of the best pizza in the New World. She's crossed over to the epicenter of hipness: Brooklyn.

But nevermind that. I still heart Astoria. Where people are comfortable with who they are. Italians. Greeks. Balkans. Russians. Hispanics. A big swirl of humanity with more exposed flesh than you ever want to see on both men and women. If your fashion quotient is low, you'll feel right at home here.

Astoria residents have all their bases covered: the sacred and the profane.

There are more front yard shrines per capita than anywhere else in the world. Except, perhaps Ireland or Italy. The Blessed Virgin, St. Anthony, St. Joseph, Jesus and other top 10 saints are smack dab out in the front yard next to the air conditioner or trash can. There's a comforting charm and unpretentiousness that I love about people who aren't afraid to let the neighborhood know just where they stand. Red State? Blue State? No. This is the Shrine State.

Then there's the flip side of faith. Every block has a psychic or tarot card reader. Trust in Jesus, or St. Joseph but just in case check out what Mrs. Rosa has to say.

Did I mention the food. Yes. Great food. Plenty of it. Greek. Italian. Even Balkan cuisine. Who knew the Balkans have a defined culinary tradition. My favorite low concept, high color restaurant was Mano's. For a mere $3.75 a cooked-to-order burger and large drink. Have a smoothie while you're at it. Papaya, of course. But other tropical flavors abound.

Next time you visit NYC -- venture out of Manhattan and explore Astoria. You may even see the size XXXL woman with her fanny pack fastened securely above her bosom. A booby pack, if you will. It's a whole new world and it's just a short subway ride away.

Enjoying: The usual toast and coffee.
Considering: a front-yard shrine. I'll consult Mrs. Rosa to ensure the time is right.

Bon Appetite!

2006-09-29T02:48:00.000-05:00

Who says we're not hip and happening? Who says we're not living the boho life?
Meeting and mingling with unusual people. And you thought knitting occupied my weekend nights. Ha.

We recently attended a party where the hostess had engaged the services of a young chef. He brought some help. Unfortunatly, it was in the form of a small serpent that he carried around on his arm. I offered to find some Tupperware to house the little rascal but he wasn't buying it.

Weird? Or not weird? You be the judge.

You're Either In or You're Out

2006-09-24T10:25:00.000-05:00

Sunday, September 24
10:25 am
64 degrees
Sunny

I'm going to say this up front as nicely as possible:
I DO NOT WANT TO DRESS IN THE SAME OUTFIT AS A 7-YEAR OLD.

Recently the Minneapolis Strib reprinted an article from the NYTimes about children's fashion. Seems that fashionistas are getting younger and younger. A precious lil gal, around 6 years-old, was pictured with her many oh-so-hip outfits. Maisy, or Daisy was quoted as saying, "I only wear Seven jeans."
Being a fashion square myself, I had to go online and check out the brand. Yeah. $150 plus bucks for jeans. Seven brand cut-offs are a bargain at just $128. That's women's pricing and kid sizes are just over $100 a pop. The official brand name is "7 for all mankind."

I'm fairly certain that only a small percentage of mankind (and we use "man" in the generic sense lest we offend) can afford to cover their child's rumpus with jeans that cost what some families might spend for their weekly grocery budget.

The article also mentioned a new magazine, Cookie, that's devoted to "mom style and kid culture."

Harkening back to my resolution to be less judgemental, I decided to check it out. OK. It's nicely done, well designed and seems aimed at the modern, style and trend conscious mom. The mag and their web site is chock full of parenting tidbits, style and beauty, fitness for mind and body. Oh, and lots and lots of ads. Because we don't have enough pressure to have the right stuff, now little Maisy or Daisy or Jordan or Madison also has to have the right hair style and stylish clothing.

Style conscious children, like 7-year old Maisy or Daisy, represent the new frontier in marketing. Cause, Gawd knows, the rest of us have been bled dry already. Brands like Diesel, Guess, Juicy Couture, Nike, are all making child size clothing. If you choose cradle to grave fashion, head to The Gap, they've got a size for everyone: infants to baby boomers. Even J. Crew has jumped on the bandwagon with crewcuts, down-sized prepster clothing for little ones.

Also let it be said:
We are happy that most nations have moved away from Oliver Twist-style child exploitation.
We are in favor of parents doing their best to be good parents.
We support teaching children about art, music, culture, how to use tableware, and poop in the toilet.

However, we draw the line at turning children into mini-hipsters or trendy extensions of mom and dad. Growing up is hard enough without pushing children into being worried about the 'cool factor' too early. {We can hardly wait to see how the rebellion phase plays out with this group.} Let children be children and not an accessory.

Our children's wardrobe way-back-when was influenced more by living paycheck-to-paycheck than by any fashion sense. Given the choice, children will choose outfits that are, well, unique. Who would guess that a girl who was unembarassed to GO OUT IN PUBLIC, let alone pose with a giant Babar character, in an outfit of tie-dyed leggings, jean jacket, neon green bandana and a hat embroidered with "Arkansas" would grow up to be fairly stylish. Cool happens. On its own. There's no stopping it. Just don't rush it.

Feel free to parent as you choose. This is, after all, a free-market-capitalistic society. We're going to spend some time on this lovely Sunday shopping at Sears shopping for a pair of jeans that no self-respecting 7-year old would be caught dead in.

Listening to: Candi Staton, You Don't Have Far To Go. Only the best new R & B album in the last ten years. Listen to it.
Eating: Pistachio nuts
Getting ready: to haul my a** around Lake Harriet

Work in progress.

2006-09-08T19:42:00.000-05:00

September 8
Friday evening 9:49 pm
57 degrees
Cloudy

OK. I'm a nerd. I admit it. Simple things amuse me.
I like to make things -- the sillier the better.
Like knitting a striped kitten. With "britches" on.

The problem is -- well, there are several problems.
1. My things bear little resemblance actual pattern. Instead of looking like a "kitten with britches," my effort resembles a striped butternut squash. My thalidomide kitten. Of course, it's still in it's nascent phase.

2. I improvise before mastering.

3. I have a hard time finishing them. But am I discouraged because my efforts look amateurish? That I'm doomed to be a less-than-average-knitter? Or because the kids on the playground are making fun? Hell, no! Let the absurdity continue.

Awhile back, I resolved to finish everything before starting something new.
I offer up this, this, object to you, dear readers to publicly proclaim that YES, I will finish this project. I will sew on the little button eyes. I will knit the little ears, and kitten appendages and then sew them on. And then I will reveal my kitten for all the world (or at least the 2 people who read this blog) to see.

Contain yourself.

This week's fitness Report: Tuesday = Yoga. Wednesday = Workout w/ Chad. Thursday = Ran 3 miles. Friday = Workout w/ Chad. Tomorrow @ 8:30 am = Yoga.

Currently = exhausted.

It's Now or Never.

2006-09-04T10:15:00.000-05:00

For some crazy reason the fitness bug has bitten. Maybe it was not having the strength to schlep heavy boxes from upstairs to the basement.
Maybe it was not being able to see a visible waistline.
Maybe it was not wanting to appear in public in a swim suit or even wear a sleeveless blouse that revealed upper arms like bratwurst.

Whatever the reason, we are now committed to reducing body fat and increasing strength. It started in April. Let's not overdo it right away. Start simply. How hard could it be? There's a little yoga studio nearby -- i yoga -- which turned out to be perfect. But not so easy. 15 minutes into the first session it felt like someone turned on the heat. And there's nothing quite as humbling as having your ass kicked by a pregnant teacher. The stretching feels wonderful and holding up your body weight in Down Dog or Plank is bound to build strength. Slowly, though, slowly.

Then, to up the ante a little we found essentials4fitness. Because self-discipline is a foreign concept, and because personal trainers aren't just for celebrities, we signed up for 10 sessions with this guy. Don't let that youthful demeanor fool you. He's one tough taskmaster. The first session was exactly one month ago and one muscle group or another has been sore ever since. Public appearance in a swimsuit is still a few months off.

Not to neglect the cardiovascular system, running on a more regular basis is part of the grand plan. Try the new favorite treadmill workout: watch this while doing the "random hill climb." Yummy. Then you feel like you deserve that plate of pasta.

We've heard that interval training -- that is alternating walking and running -- burns more fat faster. So try the Bravo Interval System . One simply runs during commercial breaks and walks during the show.

Or another favorite: the iPod Interval System. This is best used outdoors, say, running around Lake Harriet. Set the iPod on "shuffle" and walk for one song and run for the next. Totally random, not scientific and probably frowned upon by professionals. But that's what makes running fun. If it can be called fun.

You could get lucky and walk to a 4:35 Diana Krall tune like All or Nothing at All or a 4:19 Dylan song like Simple Twist of Fate. Followed by a 2:00 run to a Ray Charles tune like Hit the Road Jack.

Or you could get an extended Coltrane jam like the 7:58 version of I'm Old Fashioned for the run segment. You never know what's coming next. And that's the challenge. Today, is a holiday. No physical activity required. Thanks to the American Labor Unions for a day to celebrate work by not working. Or working out.

On the agenda today: eating, drinking and card playing on Rita's new pergola.

P.S. My brother, Dennis, asked "What are you training for?"
The reply, "Life, I guess."

A colleague, a former college swimmer, wants us to train for the Alcatraz to San Francisco swim next August. Just slightly over 1 mile in the water, a wet suit required as the water is quite cold. Should I risk heart attack or go for it.

Unless you have some other suggestions. Or I could just stand around looking fabulous in my swim suit.

10 Things You Need Right Now

2006-08-29T21:47:00.000-05:00

Magazines love lists:
115 ways to get organized.
10 things that will drive your man wild (they're not talking about not flushing the toilet.)
One-day Decorating: 15 pretty projects.
25 Easy recipes.
10 ways to teach your child manners.
And other such nonsense.

Someone at work found this handy list. We do occasionally need fashion advice now that the daughters aren't around to approve outfits prior to leaving the house. Ten things seems simple and easy, so let's check it out.
1. Black / gold handbags. OK, why not. We'll try one. We prefer silver, but black is basic. How can you go wrong.
2. Red shoes. Looks like a 4" heel. Not with these bunions.
3. Belts. Seem harmless enough. Besides the pants are getting a little baggy.
4. Tunics. Fat chance. Only work if you're 6' tall with slim hips like a Spanish waiter.
5. White shirts. Now we're talking. Reminds me of my 12 years of uniform wearing in parochial school.
6. Narrow pants. Look like high-water narrow pants. Um. No. Too much emphasis on the large feet.
7. Dresses. How can you be against a dress. And a cute little shift dress at that. We'll take one. What the hell, make it two.
8. Bold gold necklaces. Sorry. Cleopatra we are not, even though Rome is the hottest show on HBO.
9. Black leggings. Only if dressing like Audrey Hepburn in the beatnik scene from Funny Face.
10. Boots and booties. Leather and crocheted foot warmers. How quaint. Love the boots, but your dogs would be barking after running at work all day in high heels.

4 for 10. Not so good. Here's what the hell we really need. Right now.
1. Sleep. For starters we'll settle for a good nights sleep.
2. Comfortable, yet stylish, shoes. . . . that don't pinch, cause blisters, corns or other ailments of the foot and don't like like they were designed by an orthopedic surgeon.
3. Jeans. A pair that fits without revealing my bum crack and back fat and tummy bulge. But not riding squarely at the waist, either.
4. Perfect underware. Somewhere between Granny Panties and a thong that won't survive one maching-washing is the perfect pair of undies. Mostly cotton with a hint of spandex. Minimal UPL (Unsightly Panty Lines). No wedgies. If you find them, please buy me 10 pair.
5. A really cool uniform designed by say, Prada or Chanel, so dressing for work is easy.
6. Abs of steel, not jell-o.
7. The perfect every-day purse. Important that it is NOT a big black hole where everything falls to the bottom. Enough inside pockets to stash cell phone, small notebook, wallet, car keys, Maybe a paperback or magazine if you ride the bus. A banana.
8. A magic wand. That works.
9. A decent bra. Why must you try on 50 just to find 1 that fits? Smooth cups. Support without a flying buttress attached. Underwire but no poking. And a strap that doesn't make grooves in your shoulder.
10. One classy "dress up" outfit. One. Just one outfit, because we rarely dress up anymore. Something that is not also made in Junior and Girls' sizes. Nothing trendy with handkerchief hemline or lingerie-style bodice. What the hell happened to the LBD (little black dress).
That's what we need. Right now.

Now soliciting: your top 10 places to find your top 10 things.

Currently enjoying: lemonade
On the Agenda: washing the car followed by Holiday-weekend relaxing.

A Certain Morning

2006-08-27T06:50:00.000-05:00

"Certain mornings, on turning a corner, a delightful dew falls on the heart and then evaporates. But its coolness remains, and this is what the heart requires always." Albert Camus

There's something absolutely delicious about waking up early, really early, on a Sunday morning. No alarm. Just the birds calling, the occasional car, the soft whir of the ceiling fan. Weird little insect sounds. Curtains rustling gently. The foot falls and random bits of conversation of people out for a run. The coffee smell is tempting, but there is no rush to get up. Not at all. The Husband's up and out the door for a crack of dawn tee time. To simply lie in bed with a couple of cats curled up at one's feet, and know that you can get up or not get up. Go ahead. Lie there and let your mind drift in and out of sleep. Bask in the lovely early morning light. That is the very essence of a summer morning.

(Some would insist on adding Northwoods’ sounds, or lake sounds, to their ideal morning but not here. We're city folk here in MadgeWorld.)

Today is wide open. What to do? What to do? Something. Or maybe even nothing. Your ideal morning? Tell us about it. Inquiring minds want to know.

Enjoying: French Roast and whole wheat toast with peanut butter.
Current sounds: Airplane. Cicadas. Crows. Church bells. Neighbor’s annoying barking dog.

The Domino Theory

2006-08-19T22:56:00.000-05:00

One thing leads to another. That's for sure. In street work and in housework.
- April -- sink hole the size of a Volkswagen appears in Humboldt Avenue. Sink holes are even better than "speed bumps" in slowing down traffic.
- Several boulevards and sidewalks begin slowly sinking.
- May -- Entire street from 53rd to 54th blocked off.
- A nice letter from the City Engineer tells us that a 70 year-old sewer/water pipe needs replacing. Such is life in the city.
- The construction trailer, a Biff and piles of machinery become fixtures on the block.

- Many city employees and lots of pieces of machinery start work. Every morning at 7 am. By the time I leave for the bus around 8 am they're having a coffee break in their trailer on the corner.
- 26 foot pit is dug.
- Not deep enough. Need the Army Corps. of Engineers to assist in going down 20 MORE FEET! That's about the depth of a 3-story building.
- As long as they're disrupting life, they decide to replace the gas lines to each house.
- Boulevards are dug up.
- Sidewalks are torn out.
- Yellow, blue and red spray paint guidelines randomly appear on the hacked up lawn and sidewalk. What's next?
- Maintenance of the front yard is abandoned. Who cares, the only traffic is parents bringing their 4-year olds to see the big diggers up close and personal.

- Mid-July -- one of the neighbors starts a lottery to guess when the work will be completed.
- August -- rumor has it that a second hole is needed. Workers are invited to Block Party.

MadgeWorld residents were terribly annoyed by all the disruptions -- no parking, no water (no toilet flushing!), caterpillar tracks all over the front lawn -- and the unpredictability of it all. That is, until we tackled some maintenance work of our own on the inside.
The task at hand: tidy up the living room since we can't work in the yard. A whole lot simpler than digging a 26-foot hole.
Or is it? We're into week three and still not done.
Week One
- Start by tidying up the coffee table -- put away silver tray and glass candlesticks UNTIL NEXT CHRISTMAS!
- That requires removing candle nubbins, washing dusty candlesticks, removing tarnish from tray (where's the polish?).
- Which leads to rummaging in kitchen cupboards.
- Therein OUTDATED foodstuff is discovered. This serves as diversion from cleaning candlesticks.
- Approximately 40 pounds of food which had passed its freshness date -- some by more than 5 years -- was carried to the trash. Did you know that JELL-O CAN GO BAD! It can. Be careful. (Jell-o gone bad. . . think of the possibilities.)
Week Two
- Freshly washed candlesticks ready to be put away. This means making room on the linen closet shelf--which is full of other candlesticks and vases, shelves of towels, miscellaneous baskets of first-aid supplies and giant cat-hair dustballs.
- More OUTDATED product discovered--from Benadryl to Correctol to Xanex. If you've got a cold or can't poop, don't come looking for any help here.
- Out it goes, along with the gallon of white vinegar (why?) and a small space heater.

- The tidying binge is disrupted by a trip to Northfield to a moving sale. Lorelei's mother is moving after 25 years. We ended up with an old rug and dresser (pictured, left). Both of which NEED WORK to be usable.
Week Three
- We take the new-old rug to Keljik's for deep cleaning. Why not take the rug from the living room, too?
- Roll up rug and throw out disentegrating pad which leaves a cloud of fine dust.

- The quick trip to drop off the rug (just 10 blocks away) takes two hours. Keljik's Rugs is an old-school family business. The kind of place that you just don't rush in and out of. The kind of place where the old guys know their stuff and are happy to share the knowledge.
"Is that cotton or wool?" (Talking about Lorelei's rug.)
Pause. Old guy bends down to touch rug.
"Cotton. Italian made. World War Two vintage. All the wool went to uniforms."
The living room rug is pronounced a "Sarouk. From Iran."
After we check out the prices on their Sarouks (from 8K to 15K) we check out the new My-T-Fine (43rd and Bryant) for lunch.
- Once the rug is gone it seems like the ideal time to rearrange furniture. Introduce a little feng shui into the house. Which means things will migrate from room to room.

Maybe by the time the water line is fixed, and the hole is filled in and the boulevards and lawns are repaired, those those candlesticks will be put away.

Enjoying: Iced Coffee
Listening to: "Summer Wind" Frank Sinatra

Everyday magic.

2006-08-02T23:12:00.000-05:00

What's not to love about New York City. More specifically, Astoria, Queens. You can get anything for less than a dollar. We did visit this store and can vouch for the fact that magic is, indeed, available for just pennies. Sometimes it's in the form of a plastic thingy that keeps hair from going down your drain. Or a big pan to cook noodles in. The kind of pan that will go PING. And develop a warped bottom if the gas is too hot. But, the price. Magic.

Sometimes the magic is in the details. A day like today when everything seems to go your way. All the traffic lights turn green and you sail to your destination. You get a Princess Parking spot just steps from the door. Your sales clerk rings up your purchase and says, "Oh, there's been an additional markdown!" A trip to Target and you no longer have to visit the school supply department.

A weekend with absolutely no social obligations. You do as you please. Read the paper in your p.js. Water the damaged lawn. The weather's perfect. The end of day sun is golden. Ripe. But, best of all are August nights. The most magical of the entire summer. Warm days, but perfect, breezy nights. No air-conditioning needed. You sleep with the windows wide open and the sound of crickets fills the air. A sure sign that we are sliding gently towards Fall. Oh, so reminiscent of the sweet childhood on Pillsbury Avenue. Sleeping on the front porch. Enjoying those last days of freedom before heading back to school.

Listening to: Moondance, Van Morrison

Hot Enough for You?

2006-07-30T09:34:00.000-05:00

"I'd like to coo with my baby tonight
and pitch some woo with my baby tonight
but sister you fight my baby tonight
cause it's too darn hot"

Besides, my baby's out on the golf course this morning probably getting sun stroke from the scorching sun, blistering wind and obscenely high humidity. That is not my idea of an ideal way to spend a hot morning. Me? I'm indoors, ignoring dust bunnies, and generally doing as little as possible.

Good old Cole Porter said it best. Check out the full lyrics from the Broadway show "Kiss me Kate."
Too Darn Hot

Honestly, I think I prefer BELOW zero temperatures instead of a heat index of 105 degrees. One can usually find a place to warm up, but can't always find a place to cool down. And it's socially acceptable to pile on layers of clothing, but not always approriate to strip down. Unless working in an occupation that requires partial nudity, which I do not.

My yard is completly toasted, over run with weeds and I don't even care. Nope. Not going out to put the sprinkler on. Let nature win. At least this week.

Listening to: Summer in the city Lovin Spoonful
Enjoying: ummm. Ice Water.

A kinder, gentler Madge

2006-07-23T22:16:00.000-05:00

MadgeWorld is populated with people of strong opinions. People who may jump-to-conclusions. People who might take one look at stupid behavior and think to themselves, "hmmm, there goes a stupid person. Why are they taking up precious resources that the rest of us could benefit from?" People might not actually BE stupid, they might only look stupid.

That behavior might be a little off putting to some. My kids, for example. Occasionally, my daughters tell me that I'm way too critical. When I rant at them for their catty remarks, they give me the skunk eye that says, "well, we learned it from YOU." So, in the spirit of self-improvement and to set an example for the younger generation we offer you:

Birthday Resolution #2
Fewer harsh, judgemental, opinionated observations of the General Public.

Examples:
Someone driving a Hummer in a non-combat situation-- I'm no longer going to look at him and think, "Sheesh, that rich SOB is truly a pretentious, insecure energy pig." No. Not going to do that anymore. It's just a guy trying to protect his precious cargo. Because Minneapolis is so dangerous.

What about that guy who gives me the finger while I'm trying to merge onto 35W. He's not a complete jackass. No, sir. He's just waving at me. I'm going to practice the Zen of driving. He's just another minor obstacle to be avoided. Have a nice day. Ohmmmmm.

Or the couple running around the lake this morning with a double-wide off-road stroller and two giant dogs. The entire litter refused to give way to anyone. No, they're are not self-centered and inconsiderate. They're just so focused on their family moment that they don't notice OTHER PEOPLE are WALKING on the path.

Or any one of the young professionals I work with. College educated young professionals. Often overheard saying, "Her and I . . ." or "I seen. . ."
I'm not going to assume they are idiots. Or wonder how they earned their degree. Or assume that their roommate wrote their papers. They're just a couple of youngsters who simply forgot some of the BASIC RULES OF GRAMMAR in their mother tongue. I'm going to gently say, "certainly you mean SHE and I. SHE. SHE. SHE." Sheesh. I'm even going to overlook the confusion about when to use "fewer" and "lesser." This last example may send some of you scurrying through this post looking for a typo, misplaced punctuation or speeling error. Be kind. Find the errors in this post and you get a prize.

Golly, it's time for my milk and cookies and I'm so looking forward to watching Pollyanna before I go to bed.

Of course, by next week I'll probably be commenting on the sons-of-bitches who gave me a door ding in the parking lot. Or the bastards who have the "support our troops" sticker on their gas-guzzling SUV. But a middle-aged gal can dream, can't she.

Listening to: Sunny Side of the Street, Count Basie

Birthday Resolution #1.

2006-07-22T10:42:00.000-05:00

Earlier this month I celebrated a birthday. Let's just say I'm a lot closer to 60 than I am to 50. Shitballs. I'm a little stunned about it. I remember when I was about 11 and started reading the Minneapolis Tribune on Saturday mornings. They had the crime report on the same page as the comics. I'd read the blurbs, "Joe Jones, 19 arrested for stealing a car--or some other juvenile deliquent behavior." 19. It sounded so old. So far away. MadgeWorld only tolerates looking ahead, not wallowing in the past. So, instead of whining about how damn old I'm getting, this year involves making some resolutions. Why not. It's my New Year.

1. Finish all projects before starting any new ones.
I suffer from ADD of the crafting and home improvement world. Sewing. Knitting. Beading. Photography. Every new activity requires several trips to the fabric store, Bobby Bead, National Camera, Value Village or Target. A simple bracelet costs me $150 in supplies and then I never finish it. Actually, I NEVER start simply. I always start with the most complicated version.

The family room is piled high with several knitting projects. A 12-foot table in the basement is covered with photos, paper scraps, glue sticks. The dining room wall looks like an ancient fresco because I started removing flaking paint. Started. Not finished. Many projects. All in progress. Enough is enough. Time to take radical action.

Here's a sample of what's to be finished:
- Photo album for Mo and Di. Started for Christmas 2005.

- Photo album "travels with mom" started for Christmas 2005.
- Beaded bracelet started for Hooly's birthday. Circa 2003.
- Photo albums for Steve's siblings w/ photos from Meg's wedding. 2005.
- Scarf for Molly Belk. Started last winter. Black and Orange. Go Tigers!
- Sweater for Trixie. Started three months ago.
- Knitted Kitten. Second one. Long story. Ask Carol Henderson.
- Dining room painting project.
- Basement ceiling and walls. Ripped out last year. Find contractor to put back together.
- Install ceiling fan in bedroom. Purchased in 2002.
- 6-foot cobblestone walkway in front of house.

- Here's why I'm truly pathetic. I started this needlepoint project OVER 25 YEARS AGO!
Why start simple. It's pearl cotton on penelope canvas and incorporates a complicated counted cross stitch border. One missed stitch and your hearts won't join up. Sweet little petit point flowers and lettering.

I was making it for an anniversary. The Mister's name. My Name. Our Anniversary date -- yet to be stitched. The pattern incorporated the sentiment "Endless Love" because the border has that endless pattern effect. I substituted the Marine Corp. motto as more appropriate. Time to bring it all together? I think so. If I can ever find the book with the pattern!

Oh, the list goes on and on. I'm going to stop now and get cracking on. . . well, something. There are lots to choose from.

Listening to: The sweet sounds of summer.
Finishing: breakfast.

Still Rockin' after all these years

2006-07-15T13:16:00.000-05:00

Then

Now

Here in MadgeWorld we encourage comfort. Like practicing your electric guitar in your bathrobe while watching Entertainment Tonight and balancing on a core board. It's important to make every minute count, especially at our advanced ages.

Never underestimate the value of surprise in keeping a relationship interesting. And humor. And a healthy dose of cynicism. On one of our anniversaries, a huge bouquet of red roses arrived at my office. The enclosure card read, "Madam. I regret to inform you that we have been married for 17 years."

I'm as amazed as the next guy that The Mister and I have survived 32 years of marriage.
- 8 different addresses--6 of those as homeowners.
- 4 children in the first 10 years.
- Over $250,000 in groceries.
- At least 250 parent teacher conferences.
- 68 purchases with an "assembly required" disclaimer.
The years fly by. It's the days and nights that seem long.

There's no secret to the longevity of the relationship. We merely approached life together assuming that we will stay married. No matter what. As The Husband said to one of the offspring recently, "It's called commitment. You ought to try it." It would be safe to say that we don't overthink or over analyze -- there's not a lot of discussion about The Relationship. That's not how we roll. We'd rather fight over the remote. Or why I think watching golf on TV is BORING.

Money seems to cause marital discord. But, unlike a lot of couples all our money goes into one big pot and I take care of it. There's no separation of Your Money and My Money. It's all Our Money. Interestingly, both our parents gave us the same advice as we innocently headed into marriage with Meggie on the way. Have a designated driver when it comes to managing the family money. When we got married, I converted my checking account to a joint account and we were off and running. (Steve existed on a cash economy. Literally, he cashed his paychecks and kept the money in a box.) I could have stolen it then and could steal it now and escape to Tahiti, but he trusts me and so far I'm still here. Not that I haven't occasionally considered it . . .

It's been, in a word, INTERESTING. Semper fi, baby.

Listening to: Someone Like You, Van Morrison
Currently Reading, Manhattan Transfer, John Dos Passos

My daughter, the New Yorker

2006-06-28T22:35:00.000-05:00

On June 15th I arrived in New York's Laguardia Airport
(named after Fiorello Laguardia. Mayor of NYC from 1934 to 1945. A fiery and devoted reformer. Son of a Jewish mother and a lapsed-Catholic-turned athiest-Italian father.) for a 4-day visit with Ms. Nora.
I was under STRICT ORDERS to not set foot in a cab until 5:30 to ensure that Nora would be at her apartment to greet me.
According to Nora, her apartment is a $10 cab ride and just minutes away from Astoria. (an early village of Queens named after fur tycoon John Astor.)

Cell Phone conversation:
Nora: Where are you?
Me: Getting my baggage.
Nora: I'm leaving work. Don't leave there until 5:30. I mean DON'T even get in line for the cab until 5:30.

Dutiful mother that I am, I sat around, then que-ed up for my cab. Told the "GrandMaster Cabbie" my destination and off I went with my elderly Sikh cabbie. Like many drivers in many cities, he had a limited command of the English language. I was unsure if he knew where 30th Avenue and 43rd Street was.

Seconds later:
Nora: Where are you?
Me: In the cab.
Nora: No. What street are you on?
Me: ummm. Somewhere on a ramp exit. I'll call you when I get closer.

7 minutes later:
Me: Hello.
Nora: Where are you?
Me: Hmmm. Let me see. Wait. OK. Street Sign. 83rd and Astoria Blvd.
Nora: WHAT! Why is your driver taking the longest way from the airport. He's just pissed that he didn't get a Manhattan fare.
Me: Shhhh. It's ok. I'm on the way.
Nora: What does the meter say.
Me: $7.40
Nora: YOU"RE KIDDING! Ask him. NOW. Why is he taking the long way. TELL HIM that you're not paying more than $10 bucks.
Get his license number.
Me: *in a hushed tone* Nora, he is simply trying to make a living. I'll be there shortly. Just wait somewhere so I can see you.
Nora: TELL HIM HE"S GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME when he gets here! What's the meter NOW!

Luckily at that moment the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I'm certain that Nora took shelter somewhere.

We pulled up in front of St. Joseph Catholic Church (nor sure if Fiorello attended or not) on the corner of 30th Avenue and 43rd Street.

I paid my turban-wearing driver. Gave him a $2 tip in spite of Nora. Wished him a lovely day. And waved at my lovely daughter who was just crossing the street.

Listening to: New York State of Mind, Billy Joel
Enjoying: Sicilian Olives

Things we never knew.

2006-06-26T22:39:00.000-05:00

You never know when you'll get an insight into your spouse.
Take Sunday evening, for example.

--The Husband was watching a program on Public TV. I only caught the brief segment about drug use during the 60s. You know--dirty, pot smoking hippies, free love and all that. How drug use started out as an innocent, have a good time sort of thing. Then turned dark and dangerous. From free-wheeling, mud puddles of Woodstock to the insidious Stones concert at Altamont when Hell's Angels "security" stabbed some poor altered-consciousness slob who was just trying to get on the stage.

--Segue from a peace and love San Francisco demonstration to clips of servicemen in Viet Nam smoking pot -- actually using a rifle as a bong. (Yes, kids, I know and can identify a bong.) Then, footage of the requisite grim and depressing battlefield shots. Lots of casualties. And lots and lots of drugs.
Me: "I can't believe this. This is so sad--most of those guys are probably dead!"
The Husband: "We didn't do THAT many drugs. At least not in the field. (He was in the infantry.) We drank a lot, though."
I have a difficult time watching anything related to war, battlefield casualties. Evening listening to the radio and hearing about more dead servicemen makes me emotional. Especially, with Paddy off in the Navy. That picture is The Husband at age 19.

Dinner table conversation later:
Me: So, that show was disturbing. You're really lucky to be alive.
The Husband: Oh, really!? (irony dripping)
Long pause
The Husband: Yeah, probably lucky at least 4 times.
Me: I mean, being in the field and all. . .
The Husband: Did I ever tell you about the time I was trying to get a dead guy into a helicopter? I just couldn't get a hold of him. This other guy pushed me out of the way and grabbed the guy. 5 seconds later he took a bullet to the head.
Me: silent
The Husband: Yeah, I must have gone into shock or something. I can't remember the guy. I can just remember seeing his brains in the grooves on the floor."

Why, no dear, you never did tell me that story. And now, here we are 37 years later eating dinner at our kitchen table. Lucky him. Lucky that the universe conspired to bring us where we are. That The Husband survived his teens, 18 months in the Marine Corps and our marriage, in spite of himself. That we conspired, against all odds, to stay together. With our 32nd Wedding Anniversary fast approaching, it's a fine time to reflect on how we got here.

Listening to: Walk on the Wild Side, Lou Reed
Eating: Sesame Thins and a late dinner

The tables are turned.

2006-06-15T10:56:00.000-05:00

Who: Madge
What: Heads off into the wild blue yonder.
When: Around 1:10 pm depending on Northwest Airlines' flight schedule.
Where: New York City
Why: visiting Nora.

I was agitating about packing: Do I have enough clothes? Do I have the right clothes for the hip-capital-of-the-world? What about shoes? Workout togs? Toothbrush? Shampoo?

Aw, quit it now. I realized that for once I can mooch off my child for a change. Shampoo? Who needs it, I'm sure she is completly stocked with health and beauty aids. Emphasis on the beauty. Oh, I look forward to being entertained in the streets of Astoria.

I intend to completely document the lifestyles of the poor and unknown including her shoebox-sized apartment. So, check back next week for a photo essay on Queens. MadgeWorld meets Astoria. Stay tuned.

Listening to: Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell
Waiting: for my cab.

Summer's temporary pleasures.

2006-06-08T21:54:00.000-05:00

Just because you need a little poetry in your life once in awhile, and to acknowledge the short-lived beauty of the early summer garden, MadgeWorld presents a poem by John Ciardi.

If you've never read any of his poems, we strongly suggest that you do so. If you're in an intellectually expansive mood, you might even entertain reading his children's poetry or his translation of Dante's Inferno -- we're told that it is the finest translation on the planet. But, we haven't read it -- you'll have to read it for yourself.

The Day of the Peonies
This is the day of the peonies. My daughter
in the spell of an abundance that can't last
filled every bowl and vase in the house with water
and mounded the day pink. When I came to breakfast
my transformed toast and coffee were body and blood
of the flowering alter. "The Times shall not intrude

on what this is," I read from the introit
and threw it to yesterday. One petal shed
into my cup. "I have my good and know it,"
I acknowledged, a service for the dead;
spooned out the pink omen and drank the waft
of feasted day, half holy and half daft.

"introit" from the Latin meaning "entrance". Also the beginning part of the Mass. We leave the interpretation and enjoyment to you, dear reader.

My Sister brought this lovely bouquet over on Sunday morning. We had the pleasure of Stinky and Lorelei's company for a short visit. In fact, today is his birthday, but that is a subject for aother day. Besides, when one's Offspring start turning 30, it makes one feel, well, old.

Listening to: Going, Going, Gone, Bob Dylan

Buon Compleano mia sorella!

2006-06-06T21:44:00.000-05:00

It's hard to be friends with your little sister when she's 4 and you're 9. Five years is a world of difference in those early years. Ditto when she's an awkward 13 and you're 18. You're both angst-ridden and surley in your own special ways. I'm not quite sure when My Sister and I became real friends. But I'm glad we did. Here's just a few of the reasons why:

- Two words: ROAD TRIP! We once drove from Memphis, then down through the entire state of Mississippi and didn't get arrested or beat up.

- She'll say anything to anybody. Example: We're standing in a service station in Po-Dunk, Minnesota watching a kid change our flat tire. His right hand is missing all 4 fingers.
My Sister, "So, what happened to the hand?"
Me: inwardly cringing.
My Sister to one of the Nephews: "So, what's with the nose ring?"
To some random, ill-behaved, noisy child, "Stop that!"

- She likes cemeterys as much as I do.

- She gives the best presents: one year it was rubber stamps -- "Do I look like I give a rat's ass?" and "I don't give a shit." The best Christmas. Ever!
This year, it was small buttons with a tastefully designed "shitballs." (my current favorite curse word.) Way to spread the holiday spirit.

- She swears like a longshoreman. You know that bad guy on Deadwood? Well, I think My Sister taught him a few choice words. Words that once got Lenny Bruce arrested.
- The general public annoys her.

- She knows how to get shit done. Seriously. If Eisenhower hadn't been available to manage the D-Day invasion, My Sister could have handled it. In her sleep.

- She understands my verbal shorthand.
- She's always on time. And I'm usually late. Take this birthday greeting, for example. One day late.

- Such a joker! She once presented me with a little Tiffany box. You know, the famous Tiffany Blue Box. Inside, there was a pair of JCPenney size XXXXL underware. In a lovely shade of blue. Ha. Ha. Very funny. Especially when I wore them over my clothes and there was still room for another person.

- She knows her limitations. When the gals get together for Stitch 'n Bitch she skips the stitching and sticks to the bitching.

- She knows what's important. Work is just work. It's all the other stuff that matters.

Happy Birthday! Who gives a shit if you're over 50?
Lots of love Sister as we head into the second half of our lives.

Currently listening to: "Sisters are Doing it for Themselves" Aretha and "Yesterday" the Beatles
Enjoying: sicilian olives

Random acts of activity. . .

2006-06-05T17:40:00.000-05:00

. . . Memorial Day-Style.

Or How to spend a Memorial Day weekend when you have absolutely nothing planned. For many it is The Official Start of Summer. Pack the car, drive Up North with a zillion other people. I love road trips but not when everyone else is on the highway, too.

The city, and MadgeWorld, was actually pleasantly abandoned this holiday weekend. With The Husband getting his money’s worth out of his annual City Golf Course pass, I had all the time in the world to do something. Or nothing.

Highlights.
- So, I tried: 8 am yoga class on Saturday. I dragged my out-of-shape-arse out of bed only to have a pregnant teacher kick my ass. I thought yoga was gentle. New Age. Complete with annoying flute music. No way. This place plays Marvin Gaye and Jack Johnson. Sweat? I was wringing wet after 20 minutes. I thought she had mistakenly turned on the heat. I almost had to call a cab to get home.

- Bra shopping. One of every woman’s most dreaded shopping excursions. Possibly the worst dressing room experience one can have. Too many choices: under wire, soft-cup, demi-cup, enhancers, minimizers, convertible straps (FIVE DIFFERENT CONFIGURATIONS!) front close, strapless, sport-style, barely there, cross-your-heart, full-coverage, extra support. I was looking for extra support. You know, the flying buttress of the bra world. Let’s just say I did purchase two items and spent less than $100.

- Home Depot for new bathroom light fixtures. Tip-of-the-day: DO NOT GO TO HOME DEPOT ON A HOLIDAY WEEKEND. Everyone who didn’t go Up North goes to Home Depot. With the entire family.
- Gardening. For all the time I spend working on the yard you would think that it would look better. With the temperature in the 90s and the humidity level of the tropics, I gave up and went to the cool climate of the basement. A dehumidifier (from Home Depot) works wonders.

- Rummaging in MadgeWorld archives. Looking through the storeroom. Again. I’m always seeking to lighten the load before we unload the house (timing TBD, kids, so don’t panic and be putting your guilt trips on me). I discovered a box of old clothing. Including a short-sleeved sweatshirt that belonged to Steve when he was in the Marine Corps (1968-69). It’s really small. But then I remembered he weighed 145 pounds when he came home.

- A trip to the cemetery. On a road trip or vacation if I am given a choice between the mall or a cemetery I’ll give up the mall anytime. We took our Mother to visit Calvary Cemetery early Monday morning. Our dad and brother are buried there.

As is my dad’s brother, Richard, who was killed in WWII. It was a lovely, breezy morning before the heat took over. Peaceful, even. Did a little clean-up around the graves. Left flowers and some rosemary for remembrance. We get an extra day off to remember the dead, so visiting the cemetery seemed the least we can do. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.

Listening to: God Put a Rainbow in the Sky, Mahalia Jackson

Happy Birthday Paddy!

2006-05-19T21:55:00.000-05:00

Patrick Nolan McInerny--21 years old today.
It's today in Minneapolis but it's tomorrow already in Guam.
And that's where Paddy's division, The Fighting Forty -- part of the SeaBees -- are deployed.
Guam, a landmass that's 541 square kilometers. That's smaller than NYC!

My baby! He's all growed up! Check it out.
Here he is, pictured with Meggie, at graduation from Navy Basic Training in Great Lakes in March 2004.

And now, in April, 2006. All growed up with the tattoos to prove it. Nothing like the military to encourage a rise-and-shine mentality, personal responsibility and not to mention--kick-ass uniforms. They took a tall skinny kid and kicked those sagging pants of his right off. Of course, the first time I saw him in the uniform I cried like a 10 year-old girl. Even now, I'm barely holding back the blubbering-where-did-my-babies-go-tears. Paddy can't stand cheap shows of emotion, so I must pull myself together -- it's all about him today.

Knick Knack Paddy Facts:
- He was forced into the world by an induced delivery.
- His first word was creampuff.
- He's the 5th left hander in the family.
- Austin saved his life twice.
- He doesn't have a driver's license.
- His BMX bike is still in the basement.
- His favorite movie is Willie Wonka. The original with Gene Wilder not the lame remake with Johnny Depp. But only after a walk to the creek with Joe Coyle.
- He once broke Nora's tailbone.
- He occasionally prefers the company of Senior Citizens.
- He's very loyal.
- His first nickname was Spudly.
- He is a man of few words and many secrets.
- He hates being the center of attention.
So, from all of us here in MadgeWorld, Happy Birthday, Paddy way out in the middle of the North Pacific Ocean.
May your year be full of many wonderful things.

From Whence I Sprang

2006-05-14T12:38:00.000-05:00

I come from a long line of strong women. My great-grandmother, Maria Corrigan Gleason lived to be 96.

Her daughter, my grandmother, Mary E.D. (Gleason) Farley lived to be 98.

If the model persists, my mother could live to be 100 and I might see 102. That’s a lot of years of mothering.

I checked the dictionary definition of bear as in “to bear a child.”
It’s synonymous with: Endure. Stand. Abide. Tolerate. Suffer.
A verb more appropriate to motherhood than “to have.” As in, “I have a child.”
You might as well be talking about an accessory, “I have a purse.”
Motherhood is way more than possession. Mystic Lake be damned, it's biggest crap shoot that anyone could embark upon.

MadgeWorld detests the old trick of using dictionary definitions, but here are a few transitive and intransitive definitions of the verb:
#1. To hold up; support. Ego bolstering included. “Good job!” Or the cool washcloth on a fevered head. Or hustling you to the bathroom in the nick of time when you’ve got the flu so you hurl into the toilet and not on the new sheets.
#2. To carry from one place to another. Transport. Can you say car pool. Swim lessons. Volleyball practice.
#3. To carry in the mind. Harbor. I’m not talking about a grudge. It’s the pleasant little images we visualize. Baby smiles. First steps. Throwing a temper tantrum in Target.
#4. To transmit at large. Relate. Bearing not just glad tidings—broadcasting news of your accomplishments. OK. Bragging. "You won’t believe this but. . . (insert good or bad news here).''
#5 To have as a visible characteristic. Does looking wiped out from lack of sleep count?
#6 To exert pressure, force or influence. I come from the Machiavellian theory of child rearing. Subtly, though, always subtly. Is offering a bribe for grades considered pressure or force?
#7. To endure something with tolerance and patience. At least 272 parent teacher conferences.
#8. To be accountable for. At least eighteen years and then some. . . . ''This is the Golden Valley Police Department. . .''
#9. To advance in a threatening manner. I never smacked anyone on the back of the legs with a broom handle for walking on the newly scrubbed floors. . . but I thought about it.
#10. To apply maximum effort and concentration. As in bear down. Nose blowing and butt-wiping included.

And finally #11. To give birth to. But the actual bearing is only the beginning. Motherhood is the single most exciting, joyful, frustrating, rewarding experience that life serves up.

It wouldn’t be a fake holiday without a real tribute to my own mother. (That's me, the bun in the oven. Before I started giving her fits.)
Mary Jane Farley Nagan. 80+ years old, but who is counting? Gorgeous, joyful, creative. Bore not just one, but ten of us. Buried two. She covers bear and all its synonyms: Stand. Abide. Tolerate. Suffer. But most of all, she endures. With only four of my own, I honestly don't know how she did it--without mood altering drugs and disposable diapers, no less.

Listening to: Have I told you lately that I love you. Van Morrison and the Chieftains
On the agenda: grubbing in the yard.

Let the competition begin.

2006-05-07T11:43:00.000-05:00

One of the rare things that I agree with Garrison Keillor on – besides his dislike of George Bush – is his belief that “Mother's Day is a fake holiday perpetuated by the greeting card industry and the florists, but it's here to stay, so make the best of it. The president is a fake, too, but we still pay our taxes.”

If you haven’t read his column on Mother’s Day, I urge you to do so. Originally printed in the Minneapolis Strib, it’s been reprinted everywhere from Salon.com to JewishWorldReview.com. If I had any intelligence or html smarts I’d be able to put a little link right here. But I don’t, so you’ll just have to go find it yourself.

I’m with Garrison on the made-up holidays—I think they’re ridiculous and I hate to cow-tow to the pressures of capitalism and artificial sentimentality. My kids will confirm that I said it first, but Garrison beat me to the publishing punch. Of course, I usually succumb to guilt and either mail my Mom a card several days late or call her around 9:30 pm.

Like birthdays, I think Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are for kids. They are holidays made for classroom arts and crafts involving paper plates, construction paper, plaster and anything that sparkles. Anyone under the age of 21 needs a reminder that Mom and Dad have (mostly) put their kids’ needs ahead of theirs. Like buying a mini-van instead of a sports car. Or celebrating a birthday at Chuck E. Cheese instead of the St. Paul Grill.

Lest you think I’m a heartless old biddy, I have saved every little thing that my kids have offered up over the years. (Evidence pictured from the MadgeWorld archives.) Love. Sacrifice. Sentiment. I’ve got it in spades—including all the notes to the Tooth Fairy and their teeth to prove it.

Yes, young’uns—you should remove yourself from the center of the universe and give Mom a hug and a homemade card, even if it is only once a year. But, here in MadgeWorld we believe that once you’re an adult—you’re off the hook on fake holidays. Don’t be calling on May 14th if you haven’t had the heart to keep in touch the rest of the year. That’s like going to church only on Christmas Day or Easter Sunday.

Garrison’s Mother’s Day challenge is to skip the cheesy cards and obligatory dinners and write her a sonnet. “It costs you nothing except time and effort.” That’s right, a sonnet. Me? I’m not that fussy. I’ll take a sonnet whether Shakespearian, Spenserian or Petrachan. But will open it up to haiku, couplets, free verse, whatever. A-B-A-B rhyme, AA-BB rhyme. Extra points for dactylic rhyme.

Oh, one more thing. The Old Scout suggests the following for a first line: "When I was disgraceful and a complete outcaste." That might screw up your haiku, so let's just use that as your THEME.

The playing field is level, one day only. No extra favors for your own offspring, serving our country, being in graduate school or being able to pay your own rent. Bring it on, kids. Submissions now open. (I may even write one for my mama.) Please include a SASE if you wish to have your manuscript returned.

Currently listening to: Al Jolson, My Mammy.
Enjoying: Coffee and toast.
Today’s plans: Gardening. The battle begins.

. . . or get off the pot.

2006-04-22T10:54:00.000-05:00

Yup. That's what life's all about. One way or. Another way. It all comes down to making a choice. My young nephew already has it all figured out. Lucky boy.
Coffee or tea.
Boxers or briefs.
Cat or dog.
Cotton or poly.
Flats or heels.
White or whole wheat.
Window or aisle.
NCAA or NBA.
Hardback or paperback.
Network or cable.
Upstairs or downstairs.
Stick it out or head out.
Fries or slaw.
Mac or PC.
Car or bus.
Stay-at-home or back-to-work.
Love or hate.
Smoking or non-smoking.
Good or bad.
War or peace.

Not that I'm equating choosing fat-free half and half over the real thing with a major life choice. Thing is--whatever your situation, you've just got to make your choice and get on with it.

The Husband and I would never be accused of over-thinking a situation. We're the ones who uprooted our little family from south Minneapolis and moved to LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Almost on a whim. Not once, but twice. In fact, during our 30-year marriage we've had 8 different addresses and disproved the old axiom: “you can’t lose with real estate”. Twice. We hemorrhaged cash, but do you see me crying about it. (Well, not any more.) It’s just money, we can make some more. Of course, we won’t be retiring until we’re 97.

Rule Numero Uno here in MadgeWorld is that once “Everything Will Work Out.” And it does. I could have completed the student teaching assignment and not dropped out of college. But then I wouldn’t have worked at Haskell’s which led to my first job in advertising. (Long story.) Which led to a job at Target.

When I left Target Advertising, my sister, Rita, took my place. At 10 cents MORE per hour! I went to work for Cy DeCosse (thanks Cy, without you I would not be earning a living today. Another long story). Sure, I could have stayed at Target for 30 years and been a millionairesse with stock options. But then Rita wouldn’t have met Mike, who also worked for Cy. I wouldn’t have three gorgeous nieces. Honestly, I couldn’t live with the guilt.

I’ve tried to drill Rule One into my kid’s thick skulls. I thought they’d learn my go-with-the-flow method by imitation. But no. I’ve got one who makes a spreadsheet for everything. Another one who overthinks everything. Another one who borders on the neurotic. And another one who remains a mystery. Whatever their methods, it seems to be working for them.

Real estate disasters aside, our modus operandi has worked for us. It's like the string theory of physics. In fact, I’m getting a little restless. I feel another whim coming on. One way or. Another way. That’s life. Enjoy the journey.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I’m going to have breakfast.
Cereal or eggs.
Toast or hash browns.
MPR or Jazz and Traffic.

Baby, you can't drive my car.

2006-04-20T23:50:00.000-05:00

I was gong to write about my sojurn in Palm Springs, but that will have to wait for another day. Because, today, within the span of 5 minutes I received 3 e-mails with the same subject line. ”Your help. Can it impact prices. . . . ”
An e-mail about how lil’ ole you can help control the high price of gas, simply by boycotting Exxon and Mobile and forwarding the e-mail to 30 people exhorting them to do the same. “Buyers control the marketplace!” “Join the resistance.”
It encourages you to forward the e-mail to 30 people. “Do the math. We can reach 30 million people.”

Where do these things start? And why do people forward them. They don't even have the courtesy to delete the forwarded trails so you have to scroll through several thousand lines to find out what the inane message it. The e-mail claims to have started with Paul Kingsley RCDD. (should I know who he is?) The e-mail mentions a “retired coca Cola executive with an "engineer buddy who worked at Halliburton.”

OK. Think about the above for just a second. Halliburton is in cahoots with GW and has made millions off of government contracts to provide “services” to the U.S. in Iran. Let’s just call it war profiteering and leave it at that. So, now they’re the experts behind this pseudo 60s movement to bring down gas prices. Really people. Think. Think before you forward an e-mail and clog up my in box.

I also love the left wing language of this particular junk e-mail: “Join the resistance.” Makes me remember my faux-protestor days at the U of M and the Students for a Democratic Society. Yes, now protesting is sanctioned by Halliburton and Coca Cola. Two big American Capitalistic Pig Corporations -- Up against the wall Muthaf***er, but stay refreshed ‘cause Coke is it.

I usually just hit the delete button, but today, I got cranky and responded with something that went like this:

Gas prices will continue to rise no matter what.
If you haven’t noticed, China is poised to become the largest consumer of oil on the planet. China is becoming a major market for everything – computers, software, and yes, cars.
There are over 1 billion people in China.
There are only 298 million people in the US.

Most Chinese people don’t have cars.
Many Chinese people WANT a car. There are likely several hundred million who will have one. Real soon.
Cars use gas.
The US consumes 20.03 million barrels of oil per day.
China consumes 6.391 million barrels of oil per day.
Do the math. Real math. Not play-junk-e-mail-math.
As the Chinese start driving cars and consuming oil, they will far outstrip the US consumption of oil.

So, the best solution is to STOP silly boycotts that will not affect gas prices in the short or long term and START developing alternate types of fuel and conserving energy. Real soon.

What about saving gas by carpooling, or using rapid transit (i.e. the bus or Light Rail if you live close enough),
or driving less – consolidate your “errand” trips, or ride your bicycle and get your fat ass some exercise (that would help reduce obesity, too. So, score on two major issues facing our nation today.).
Or move closer to your place of employment.

Americans have been spoiled by low gas prices for too long. What goes up, unfortunately isn’t gonna come down. Get used to it people. Baby, you can drive my car. But it's going to cost you.

Listening to: Highway 61 revisited, Bob Dylan.
Eating: Drive-thru food.

Memory and Desire

2006-04-02T22:46:00.000-05:00

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Ah yes, the over quoted Wasteland by T. S. Eliot.

But, something happened recently that drop-kicked memory and self-reflection into high gear: I went to see “Imprints: a Photo Project by Tom Berthiaume” at the Bookmen Stacks.

60+ portraits of Minneapolis luminaries. Our local celebs, if you will. Politicians, artists, singers, impresarios. Artists and politicos. The people that shape our city. The stuff of great show. Very hip and definitely, not square. Tom's style: elegant yet without pretension. Spare. Avedon-esque, even. Tom was gracious, sincere and generous with his credit for all the contributors. Classic Berthiaume. It was a great evening for him.

The subject matter guaranteed a successful opening night party, and the place was packed. Was it the valet parking, the open bar or the fact that Tom worked with some of the biggest names in the local ad and art scene? Some of his assistants went on to start studios of their own. Young art directors climbed the ladder and ended up as VPs and Creative Directors. His client list was the Who’s Who of Minneapolis Advertising.

Me, I was just a lowly studio manager at Arndt and Berthiaume photography back in the early 80s before the studio split up. Booking models, finding props, billing, finding 4 old bathtubs to hold the booze at the annual party--all good skills for a foundation in Project Management. Too bad I didn't pay more attention to the art and craft of photography. Getting knocked up with Baby #3, aka Nora, ended my full-time studio manager career.

In the 70s, I also worked w/ Tom at the “Twin Cities Express.” An artsy newspaper he started that was a precursor to City Pages and other rags. Great fun but he hemorrhaged money. The Express later inspired our own paper, “The Revue,” when Steve and I were exiled and bored living in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Also fun. Also a big money loser.

I was ready to see more of Tom's brilliant portraits but I was not prepared for the trip down memory lane. Faces I hadn't seen for years. Talk about stirring dull roots with spring rain--there's nothing like seeing old friends that brings emotion to the surface.

Doris! Doris was there! The people who know and love Doris could populate a small planet. She arrived the day of the opening from Italy looking gorgeous. Expatriate. Luccesian landlady.

il Mulino.

Amazing cook. And ad scene drop out. She's also one of the first people I met while I worked for Tom. Embraced me into her life and in the process became part of our family. The godmother of my youngest son, Paddy. Former business partner of my brother, Tom. Thirty years started flashing before my eyes. Too much.

Lucky me. I've got a small collection of Berthiaume images here at home: Steve's dad, Aut. (Image from an old contact sheet.)

Steve and I taken the week his mother was dying.

Meghan in her first communion dress. My imprints. The people who shaped my landscape. And I am grateful to have them. Here in MadgeWorld we also like to give credit where credit is due. Never again have I had a job where the entire scruffy staff took all afternoon for lunch at 510 Groveland, then went home drunk. Thanks Bert, for a great time in my life.

Listening to: Jackson Browne

March Family Matters

2006-03-31T22:30:00.000-06:00

All this underdog talk brings me to another reason to celebrate March Madness. Besides Hooly's birthday, St. Patrick's Day, and basketball – it’s a time to pay tribute to my dad. Born on March 19 and Grandma Farley. Born on March 24.

Bill's high school career was undistinguished. That's his yearbook photo, Cretin High School, class of 1936. Few accomplishments. Did not excel academically or on the athletic field. He was tall and skinny and had size 14 feet. His ambition was noted as: "to go on a good tear."

Like many of his grandsons who came much later, high school was legislated detention. Something to be endured until you were set free to start living. But he was a natural salesman, a superb organizer and had great social connections. He knew everyone and knew how to have a good time. I'm told he rented halls, booked bands and threw great parties. Which is how he came to meet my mother.

Dad booked the Bob Farley band for a party and started hanging out with Bob and his friends at Dutch Lake. That's dad in the back, Bob in the middle and my mom, Mary, Bob's sister, in front. Apparently, Bob's mother took a shine to young Bill and decided that he would be perfect for Mary. Some matchmaking ensued and later marriage.

Gramma – Mary Gleason – wasn’t the most gorgeous young woman in Bayfield, Wisconsin, but, she was definitely the most vivacious. Like her future son-in-law, socializing was her milieu. At a big lumberyard fire one night, she met the young newcomer, E.T. Farley. A schoolteacher from Oswego, New York. Sparks flew. A wedding resulted. 9 children followed.

If you assessed my dad or my grandma when they were young, you probably wouldn’t vote them most likely to succeed. Looks, money, athletic prowess, and academic honors. Who cares. Work with what you’ve got. Enjoy the moment. Five years after high school graduation, no one’s going to remember that someone else got the volleyball award senior year and you didn’t.

Bill Nagan barely made rank in a military high school but he got the girl and had a great life. Mary Gleason wasn’t valedictorian, couldn’t cook, could barely sew but she lived to be 98. And she must have had a great time along the way. Because every book she gave me was inscribed with her flowery script: “. . . from her grandmother, Mary E. D. Farley. Pray for me.”

The Triumph of the Underdog.

2006-03-27T21:41:00.000-06:00

And I'm not talking about a cartoon. I'm talking about basketball.

Unless you've been on a media blackout, or not paying attention to the office e-mails with the words "March Madness" or "Office Pool" in the title you know that we're in the middle of the biggest basketball month of the year. Not just NCAA Men's and Women's Tournaments but the State Basketball Title. Non-stop action for three weeks--on the court and off--and I'm talking gambling, not what some of you are thinking.

Don't ask me why I love basketball. I don't even understand most of the rules. Ball goes in hoop. Points are scored. Refs blow whistles. Mayhem ensues. Maybe it's the cute outfits and the collegiate colors. Or maybe it's the emotional frenzy, the pep band and the antics of the mascots. Grown man dressed in a Gopher suit? It could even be the absolute beauty of a perfect 3-point shot.

Maybe because there's no sure winner. Or maybe it's because a #11 ranked team can blow out a #1 ranked team and make it to the Final Four. The Underdog story of the century (so far) -- little George Mason University (who's even heard of them?) beat #6 Michigan State; then they pummeled #3 NCU. Then they shut down #7 Wichita State and if that wasn't enough they stunned #1 University of Connecticut in overtime on Sunday afternoon. I could hardly sit still to watch it! This year all the #1 teams got squashed. Grown men sent home crying. I love it.

Closer to home, DeLaSalle took the State title by beating Duluth East. Early in the season, my sister, Rita, and I watched De get their butts kicked from one end of the court to the other. Talk about underdogs, De was whole team of little guys up against big, corn-fed country boys. Oh my, I thought. Not this year.

But no. Somehow, by the end of the season, the little guys prevailed. Even their coach seemed surprised, "This isn't the most talented team I've had at DeLaSalle, but. . . " But they won. Anything can happen for the underdogs. To quote De guard, Cameron Rundles, "we just were tough. We are kind of undersized, but heart doesn't have a height."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love basketball.

Just a thought

2006-03-22T20:39:00.000-06:00

Last night, during a two hour time span, 35 million votes were cast for American Idol. 35 million votes in two effing hours! I nominate Cingular to set up "Vote-by-Phone" for the next presidential election. Even the stupid could make it to the polls.

Currently listening to: The gnashing of teeth over Chicken Little's departure from A.I.
Enjoying: Hash browns and poached eggs.

There's a lot of that going around

2006-03-19T20:48:00.000-06:00

Yes, they are. They're everywhere. From the highways and byways of our cities and towns, rolling through stop signs, yakking on their cell phones. To the grocery store. Clogging up the Express Check out when they have a cart piled high with processed food. Tell me, what is it about "10 items or fewer" that you don't understand. Illiterate? Or merely rude? They're in public places with their overindulged and ill-behaved children. Their shared family value is a belief that rules do not apply to them. Excuse me, here in MadgeWorld, we say, "get that little schitzu under control before I do it for you."

I worry about this country sometimes. Not just our lack of political leadership or that the dollar isn't worth sh** anymore, or that Cher hasn't really retired or that Saturday Night Live just plain isn't funny. No, it's that people are stupid. I don't mean they are uneducated, because educated people can be amazingly smart and amazingly stupid and devoid of common sense at the same time. I mean they are uninterested. They just don't care. Sadly, the General Public's collective IQ is falling faster than Pamela Anderson's fake boobs.

Do I sound elitist? I hope not. I'm not even a Republican. Stupid people can fall on both sides of the political aisle. Why, just today on NPR I heard an interview with a woman who had just seen Dick Cheney, in person, at a fund-raiser somewhere in Ohio. "I couldn't tell you what he said," she gushed, "it was a thrill to see him. I really feel like an American." Like a Visa card, they're everywhere you want to be. And hard to avoid.

That's why MadgeWorld is so comforting. Visit anytime.

But first, tell me about your encounters with stupidity. Just one per customer please.

Currently listening to: American Idol on TV in the other room. Talk about stupid . . . "He call me a mink!"
Eating: Smarties

Well, do you?

2006-03-05T10:37:00.000-06:00

Alright, I admit it. Not so much. That's why a package of Lorna Doone cookies or bag of Fritos doesn't last long around here. That's why the vacuum cleaner has been sitting in the middle of the living room for a week. So many more interesting distractions to choose from in MadgeWorld. What about you?

Friends Forever

2006-03-03T22:05:00.000-06:00

Hooly
Happy Birthday to my friend Beth Gilhooly. Universally known as "Hooly." We met when I was knocked up with my third and she with her first. She's godmother to my third born child, Nora. Mother to Joe, Rory, Elinor and Molly. Wife to Russ Belk. (Classmate of Stevil, DeLaSalle, class of 1967.) School Psychologist by day, gourmand, bon vivant by evening. The only one I know who heads to Keegan's Pub for a Guinness after working out in the gym.

Fearless and frickin' crazy.
How crazy, you ask? Well, we were just goofy enough to take a road trip to Arkansas with her four and two of mine in a 15-passenger van. This was before Game Boy and portable video players -- Kids get restless? Toss 'em some fruit snacks and keep going to the next rest area. Ask me about the Arkansas petting zoo sometime. Think "Deliverance" meets Animal Kingdom. Donkeys. Snakes. Puppies in need of deworming. A proprietor in need of dental work and possibly mental health intervention.
Many good times in the back yard in North East Minneapolis and many birthdays celebrated around their dinner table.

Countless hours spent at swimming pools watching the kids swim back and forth. Only Hooly and her kids persisted in that athletic endeavor. Hooly's been through it all with me. Birth, baptisms, standardized tests, school programs, confirmations, graduations, weddings, death, IQ tests (my kids are geniuses), my constant mental breakdowns. With eight children between us, we've experienced every permutation of child development and then some. And we've lived to tell many tales.

So, I wish my friend of 25 years a wonderful year. Schlanta!

Enjoying: Dry Red
Listening to: Pandora, my "Van the man" station.
Facing: a Saturday of tax preparation.

The things I carry.

2006-02-27T22:01:00.000-06:00

Now that the kids have skipped town, I keep trying to clean their leavings out of the house.
Lighten the load.
Convert to cash.
The things I've tried:
-- Garage sale-one day only. Come and get it! Evidence of success pictured in yonder box.

--Hauled carloads to the Salvation Army.
--Listed stuff on Craigs list. $120 for used Wedding Centerpieces. $100 for a left-handed acoustic guitar. $60 for a big-ass backpack. $20 for a hard-shell golf case. Joy. Cash is king baby!
--Put odds and ends on the curb with a FREE sign attached.
And yet, the stuff piles up. Seriously, the detrius is starting to get me down. I just can't get it organized.
Look at it. An entire cold storage room. Packed. To the ceiling. Hundreds of dollars worth of plastic storage units. All full.

-Three boxes labeled, "Nora winter". Well, it's winter. Her clothes are here. She's in New York. What, dare I ask, is she wearing?
- 2 boxes of high school notebooks and photos.
- 2 shoe boxes full of Nora-Erin-Cara notes.
- Austin's juggling pins and flaming torches (not lit).
- 38 framed photos, prints and paintings.
- Paddy's old turntable and stereo components
- old slide projector
- old school maps (the pull down kind). Cause you never know when you'll need to map out the Goths and Visgoths migration.
- 3 old wooden doors
- 1 guitar amp (big)

- Wrought iron curtain rod
- A wax hand (don't ask)
- Uncle Billy's vintage baseball shirts
- Paddy's messenger bag w/ his left-wing patches
- 3 boxes labeled: "Mom's stuff to go through and toss."
- 1 box labeled: correspondence, 1974 and earlier.

- Lawnmower, shovels, rakes
- Probably some cat pooh and dead bats
- laundry basket full of remote control car parts
- a 6-shelf unit full of dishes, pans, glassware, vases

-7 table cloths
- old sewing machine
- vintage ironing board. Missing rubber foot stoppers.
- 2 American flags.
- Old steamer trunk full of Austin's memorabilia (it's been here for 8 years. It's the early stage of his life).
- one box labeled, "Nora's life."
- VHS tapes including the Bruce Lee Collection
- 12 Shriner Fezzes
- box labeled "light system from Austin's apartment" (Lori gently refused to take it to Philly)
- at least 12 boxes of books including a United States Armed Forces Institute publication entitled, "the Mechanics of English," 1944.
- 4 chairs and a desk
- 3 jars of buttons and a tin full of rick rack
- 2 turtle doves
- and a partridge in a pear tree.

That's just what I see without opening boxes and rummaging through their stuff. I'm tired just thinking about it. I feel another encounter with Craig's List coming on.

Reading: The Mechanics of English (I couldn't resist it)
Listening to: Pandora. Nora was right. I'm hooked.
Eating: Who's eating between meals? It's Ash Wednesday!

The Iceman cometh.

2006-02-19T19:12:00.000-06:00

Look at that face! How could you not love a face like that. Serene, a little mysterious and a sweet smile made of a little hank of yellow rope. The vacant expression indicates that he's the kind of guy who won't be giving you any trash talk. But, most important, this man is cold. Ice cold. The kind of man you wanna throw your arms around when the heat of middle-age starts to flash. When you start to glow, from the inside out, this is the man you need next to you.

Lest the children worry while their father is away, Frosty is just a temporary escort. Tall, pale and, well, not handsome, but adequately chilled. Plus, he's sporting a hat. Don't you just love a man who's not afraid to wear a top hat. He's well read, like other men you love: look! He's close to the Wall Street Journal and New York Times. He's secure enough in his masculinity that he can wear a flowered boa and a touch of pink tulle as he heads into Ace Hardware. Yes, you can use him. Use him up. The nuclear heat that you're generating at random moments may render him a puddle of water by the end of the night, but he looks like he's got untapped reserves. Just look at the size of him. 8 feet of solid ice shavings!

Besides, he bears an uncanny resemblance to your missing Husband who is warming his old bones in the desert heat of Southern California. Heat, you don't need right now. Bask in the icy glow of SnowMan and welcome back the Man in your Life come springtime.

Listening to: "Snowed in" Albert Collins from the Frostbite Album
Enjoying: Lemon-Lime Sorbet

Take another little piece of my heart.

2006-02-13T21:53:00.000-06:00

So, where are they? The joy of my heart? They seem to be missing. Or maybe I'm missing them. After a mother's love there is no love. I don't know who said that but it may be true. No matter how many tattoos you have. No matter how many times you wake her up on Saturday morning @ 7 am with a phone call. No matter how many times you don't call her. Even if you spill your nail polish on the new front steps (It's BROWN, it will blend in!) Even if you forget to flush the toilet. Or leave your life (in boxes) in the basement. Your mother always loves you. She might be mad as hell, but she still loves you.

Happy Valentine's day to my four lovely offspring.

And the Survey Says!

2006-02-01T22:52:00.000-06:00

Good question. So, what is it? Passion or $$.
Filthy lucre.
Ducats.
Jingle Jangle.
The Almighty Dollar.
What's in your wallet?
It's not an either or question.
The answer today is, I'm carring the currency of compromise. I'm not passionate about what I'm doing. But I am passionate at what I'm doing.
Splitting hairs. Fine line and all that. But that's my final answer.

The End of an Era.

2006-01-28T09:26:00.000-06:00

On Thursday, January 19, Elizabeth "Betty" Curran departed this world. She was the mother of my high school friend -- JoAnn. The funeral was on Saturday and many of the old gang from Regina H.S. showed up. That’s the amazing thing about a funeral—amidst the grief there is the joy of seeing old friends. A weird sort of reunion celebration.

--Let me tell you something about Betty and all the other Moms of her generation: Simply, they don’t make ‘em like that any more. Strong women. Beautiful women. Post-war marriages to their soldier boys. Amazing mothers. Whatever-it-takes kind of women. Behind the scenes partners to their men who were out there working their asses off to support growing families.
--Case in point: Betty and Mike Curran started the south Minneapolis landmark, Curran’s Drive-In, on 42nd and Nicollet. Just blocks from my high school – Regina -- the place loomed large for our crowd. After school we would schlep up 42nd street to catch the #18 bus on Nicollet Avenue and get to our part-time jobs by 4:00. Many a Regina girl earned her tuition working as a carhop at Curran’s. So the drill was: stop for an order of fries, a cigarette, trash talk the Nuns and the underclassmen, then grab the bus downtown. JoAnn’s dad, Mike, knew us all whether we worked for him or not. We’d crowd around the small inside counter and JoAnn’s dad, Mr. Curran, aka Mike, would come booming out of the kitchen and give us a hard time. He was social, boisterous, charming and never judgmental as the Tareyton’s dripped from our lips.

--Betty and all the other “stay-at-home” moms gave the feminists something to rebel against. After all, how satisfying could that life be? I’m guessing, that for the most part, it was pretty eff-ing good. (Yeah, I know there was the whole John Cheever, waspy unhappy housewife thing going on, but I’m talking South-Minneapolis-cradle-of-tribal-family-territory-thing.) I’d like anyone to try to keep up with any of our old-school moms for even a day. I dare you! Double dog dare you! You’d be crying on your knees begging for mercy!
- No microwaves or designer kitchens
- No convenience foods
- No disposable diapers
- No Target! In fact, NO SHOPPING ON SUNDAYS! For the love of Gawd.

Here’s to Betty: one of the happiest, joyful women on earth. She actually planned her entire funeral liturgy before she died. It was like her: strong, confident, and not sentimental.

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Listening to: Mahalia Jackson -- it's Sunday morning, baby!
Eating: Banana muffins and high-test coffee
Preparing for: another Sunday @ work!

She has arrived!

2006-01-18T22:14:00.000-06:00

Meghan and Jeremy's perfectly precious little peanut arrived this morning, January 18, 2006 sometime around 9 am.
I simply can not describe the flood of emotion when first I gazed upon her tiny little face. And then upon Meggie, tired but ecstatic. I cried.

Where do you think you're going in that get-up?

2006-01-17T22:20:00.000-06:00

Answer: Why, out to run errands on Saturday morning, of course!
Blue wind pants.
My new diesel pseudo-tennis shoes.
Pale green t-shirt.
Gold Scarf.
Blue Jacket. (One of the buttons reads, "Shut up and Dance," which I suggest one try from time to time.
My daughters would be horrified.
Luckily, I was wearing sun glasses so I don't think anyone at the Post Office or UPS store recognized me.

Here's the best part. The jacket back.
Hell's Satans--Homer Simpson's motorcycle gang if you must know.
Paddy, thanks for leaving me the best addition to my wardrobe. Ever.

Waiting for: Meghan's baby to be born
Drinking: Chai tea
Not eating: Fritos. I've given them up.

Get my art on.

2006-01-10T22:15:00.000-06:00

Tuesday evening 6 pm -- 9 pm.
Beginning Oil Painting
Northrup King Building, taught by Clea Felien.

Q: Why?
A: New Year's Resolution #2. Do some learning.

Lesson One. Value. And we're not talking the family variety.
-- Set up still life, background and lighting.
-- Attempt to draw using little charcoal stick.
-- Wonder how those mountains got in my picture.

-- I'm learning. It's hard to be a beginner in something when in my real life job I get to be the boss and tell people what to do.
--I'm learning. A whole new language. Dark. Light. Value. Perspective. Negative Space.
This art thing. It ain't easy.
So, for all of you who look at a painting and say, "I could do that!" Well, I've got news for you.
You can't.
Don't even try.

Eating: White Castle Burgers and Junior Mints

I Hereby Resolve

2006-01-06T14:47:00.000-06:00

To cut down on the swearing.
Cut down. Not quit.
----You know that you've been dropping one too many curse words when people (e.g. your sister and your daughter) give you buttons emblazoned with some of your favorites. Not that I rival Lenny Bruce, but I've been dropping the bomb a little too much. I just don't want to play into the general lack of civility that permeates our culture.
----Used to be your mom would wash your mouth out with soap if you said certain words. Now, every sit-com character punctuates their dialog with B-level swear words and sexual innuendo.
Used to be that Lenny would get himself arrested for violating obscenity laws just by saying the same word that Al Swearengen of Deadwood fame uses at least 150 times every episode.
----Used to be that because swearing was forbidden it held a mystical allure for kids. Was part of a rite of passage to adolescence. Words had some power. Saying the F-word could get your ass whupped. Now it's mainstream. Part of lyrics, videos, movie, TV dialog and graffiti. Ubiquitous. Like tattoos.
Shitballs. Besides, I need to set a good example for the impending grandchild.

Eating: nuts
Reading: "Up Against the Wall Motherf***er" Ron Hahne, 1968

Baby, baby, oh baby!

2006-01-03T22:40:00.000-06:00

See that absolutely adorable baby?

That's my girl.
My firstborn.
My rock.
Meghan Clare McInerny.
Homo sapiens extraordinaire.
Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound.
Brilliant writer. Average cook.
Left-handed nerd.

On January 9th her firstborn is due to join the world. I'm so nervous I don't know if I'll pee my pants or cry. Probably both.

Eating: Pickles. Solidarity with Pregnant Woman.
Reading: Baby Center
Listening to: Any song with "baby" in the title.

Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum

2005-12-30T22:00:00.000-06:00

Ummm. Take a deep breath. There's something about the fresh, natural smell of tinsel that puts one in a festive mood. Why do I love sparkling tinsel trees? Maybe it's knowing that I'll never have to:
- vacuum up another sticky pine needle again
- or curse like a sailor as I wrestle a huge Douglas fir into or out of an unstable Christmas tree stand
- or needlessly fret that I'm destroying a (renewable) natural resource.

- Or, maybe it's just because it's easier to shop once, instead of pretending that it is a whole lot of fun to rummage--year after year--through a load of trees in a cold corner lot at the Farmer's Market.
- Or maybe it's because I like things that are pretty, sparkly, pink, green and blue.
Of course, it is difficult to pile presents underneath the Christmas tree, but I do love a challenge.
- Maybe it's because I'm turning into my grandmother -- who pulled her little artificial tree out of a box every year. Perched it on the coffee table in front of the picture window, added her favorite ornaments and called it a moment.
Reeks of tradition!

All together, everyone sing now:
O Tinsel Tree, O tinsel tree
Thy leaves are so unchanging.
Not only green when summer's here
But also when 'tis cold and drear.
O Tinsel tree, O Tinsel tree,
You fill all hearts with gaiety.
On Christmas Day, you stand so small,
Affording joy to one and all.
O Tinsel Tree, O tinsel tree
Thy leaves are so unchanging.

Listening to: Christmas Carols, what else people?
Foodstuffs: tinsel wrapped chocolates
Reading: Are you nuts? Who has time to read during Christmas.

Merry and Bright

2005-12-29T20:19:00.000-06:00

Nothing like a little Holiday Graffiti to get things off to a great start! Exhibit "A", people. The graffiti wall in the McInerny Garage. A work that evolves each time Paddy returns home. Word to Paddy and the boys: I will be painting over it and tagging with "Madge Rules". My colors: metallic bronze and black and, perhaps, a little teal thrown in for good measure. Watch for it.

Paddy's visits are always a whirlwind of activity. Navy leave is fairly short -- barely 10 days including travel time. And direct flights out of Jacksonville can be spendy. So, we usually opt for the cheap-transfer-in-Atlanta-AirTran-Specials. Due home on the 16th, he arrived early morning -- 3 am -- on the 17th. The flight out of Atlanta was delayed -- as usual. Look! Exhibit "B": There's my boy, I caught him smiling. Relentless pursuit with a camera.

Hurricane Nora arrived on December 23. The two younger siblings had barely 4 days of crossover. Exhibit "C". Enthusiasm meets restraint. Emotional restraint, that is. Restraint is not a word that Paddy usually applies to his love of tattoos. He continues to tax my motherly understanding with an unrelenting application of permanent markings to his body. Perhaps, if he was an aboriginal warrior it would make more sense.

To the right, ladies and gentlemen, witness Exhibit "D", one of the more recent markings on his elbow. (Yes, that is an elbow--ouch!) It appears to be a Ring Wraith with amazingly preserved dentures. Forensics also indicate a nose job gone terribly, terribly wrong. But it takes a mighty big man, or a man completly secure in his masculinity, to sport chartreuse as an accent color. Interesting choice of color. Two more images were added over the duration -- NONE included a banner proclaiming "Madge-Rules." You're killing me, Paddy! Perhaps next year.

It was a whirlwind visit-so fast even the camera can barely catch them in action.

Paddy and Friends. Winter leave. They're home from school.
He's on military leave. Rules.
Time restraints.
Must sign in by 11:59 pm on 12/27/05.

So there was a bit of anxiety about getting out of town on time.

The holidays ended as they began -- in a whirlwind: Paddy left on December 27. Nora left the next day, on her birthday, December 28.

Suddenly silence.

May your days be merry and bright.

My Lucky Day.

2005-12-17T23:57:00.000-06:00

Do you believe in signs? Symbols? Omens? Precursors? Premonitions? Well, I do, of course. First, I find not one, but two. Two four-leaf clovers that someone tucked inside a book 50-some years ago. It was just a random book from the Madge-world archives that I was paging through. And bingo! There they were, tucked in the pages. Delighted to find them, I knew that something special was on the way. Just like that song from West Side Story.

And then on December 16, who should come walking through the door? My boys! Austin (on the right), arrived home from Philly in the morning and Paddy (in the middle) blustered into the house around 3:30 a.m.--technically on December 17th. And there they are with their lovely sister, Meghan. Three out of four ain't bad. Nora arrives December 23. All right. I knew they were coming, but still--Lucky me!

Burning down the House.

2005-12-11T20:19:00.000-06:00

Well, it is the season of Advent, the four weeks prior to Christmas. Advent prayers encourage us to "cast aside the works of darkness and put on the armour of light." Let it shine.

The Downsized Thanksgiving. The bird was the word.

2005-12-01T19:36:00.000-06:00

What, no post about Thanksgiving? No picturesque scene of siblings, boy/girl friends, widows and orphans raising a toast of thanks? No amusing anecdotes about family capers while gathered around a full-to-bursting thanksgiving table?

No Austin and Meghan teasing Nora until she cried? No one laughing so hard they blew milk out their nose? No Stevil giving them all the hairy eyeball for dropping the f-bomb during dinner. No. That’s right, no. Not this year. For, like Macaulay Culkin, I was home alone. Suddenly single. Well, living singularly anyway.
The Husband resides in Casa di McInerny on the West Coast for the winter.

Nora’s shacked up in NYC working in the wonderful world of advertising.

Paddy, a proud member of the United States Navy, is assigned to the US Carney in Mayport, Florida.

Austin’s gone Ivy League on us and is working like a flogged dog at the University of Pennsylvania. Landscape Architecture NOT landscaping, thank-you-very-much. I couldn’t be prouder even if I were a Jewish mother.

That leaves Meggie. She hasn’t abandoned her mother as yet; she’s living in Golden Valley with Mr. Wonderful. But she did spend this holiday with her in-laws. Which left me alone. I could get sappy about how time flies and how the kids are all-growed-up-and-all. But I won’t. {This is me, now pretending to be sad. Alone. How delicious. It hasn’t been bad, but that is a topic for another post.}
What about the Thanksgiving meal? Huh? Did I eat Turkey Noodle Soup and fritos? No, sir, I did not. I did manage to break bread twice in one day. First, at my lovely sister, Rita’s. Her usual groaning sideboard and fully-extended-table to accommodate her cast of characters was also reduced to the bare essentials: Her Hubby, her beautiful girls. And me. Her usual crowd was also scattered this year. The small party did nothing to simplify the meal—she did it up right. We started the meal Italian style with a primi course of butternut squash ravioli--recipe courtesy of Doris. Yummy.

Then, over to northeast Minneapolis to the Gilhooly/Belks. Beth cooks good. Beth cooks big. White tablecloths. Real silver. Real Waterford. Bouquets of flowers everywhere. Real classy. And real fun. Martha before Martha got famous. Some years as many as 25 around a huge old table that extended into the living room. Like me, this holiday was supersized in reverse. Just the family, just the kids. And me. But bless Gilhooly, she didn’t hold back. It was the full-meal deal. I ate until I was full-to-bursting. And drove home alone.

Eating: Poached chicken bosoms, broccoli and carmelized onions.
Listening to: Vivaldi -- Eight Seasons by Gidon Kremer
Currently amused by: Project Runway NEW SEASON!

Plan your work. Work your plan.

2005-11-19T17:48:00.000-06:00

Here's to my dad, Bill Nagan, someone who knew how to work. Who knew how to 'convert to cash.' Who could get things done without 'holding high mass over it.' Great Dad to all 9 of us. Great husband. And all around great guy. At first, his loss was almost too much to bear. He was constantly in touch -- he loved to pick up the phone and check-in. Daily. Trite but true: time eases the pain. We just carry on in his traditions: constant phone contact; avoiding conflict; obsessive cleaning--no one could work a Hoover like Bill; a compulsion to be constantly busy--resulting in an inability to actually relax and have nothing to do; delegating chores even to random onlookers and a deep love of the 20-minute nap.

I love this photo of mom and dad. They were married in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma and shortly thereafter dad shipped out to North Africa. Get a load of those feet. Unfortunately, they've been passed along to the females of the clan. Many of us sport size 11+, to our great shopping dismay.

". . . if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow."
e.e. cummings "My Father Moved Through Dooms of Love."

Listening to: Tosca
Eating: Split pea soup with CRUSHED FRITOS. (you should try it)
Struggling with: Sudoku puzzles to keep my brain from degenerating.

I'm Wearing One.

2005-11-17T21:42:00.000-06:00

My lovely sister, Rita, took this photo in Monticatini, Italy. Mid-October, 2005.

For the uninitiated, and for those who have never seen Fellini's amazing film "8 1/2", Monticatini is a spa town in Northern Italy. (Most of 8 1/2 was filmed there.) Europeans have flocked to Montecatini for hundreds of years to take the restorative waters and now, for more traditional beauty treatments. Like mud baths and inhalation therapy. Here's a direct quote from one of the Spa web sites:

"The spa waters of Montecatini are unique in the world and contain precious elements to restore your organism.
bromine • calcium • chlorine • iodine • lithium • magnesium • potassium • sodium sulphate
Inhalation treatment with alkaline saline sulphate waters is indicated in chronic inflammation of the upper respiratory tract as sodium chloride, their main component, has a marked bactericide action and stimulates the defences of the mucous membranes."

Hmmm. I think my mucous membranes have a fairly intact defense system. Some of these treatments sound pretty scary, like nasal douches, but the Italians I saw on the streets of Montecatini looked pretty good, so maybe they've got something that American's have yet to discover.

How about an "ascending intestinal douche?" Thanks, I think I'll pass. I'd rather beat my head against a wall. Unless it's a weight-loss treatment. Then I'm in.

How could such bizarre treatments -- which are open to anyone who can pay -- take place in such lovely surroundings. Definitly the dark side. Definitely.

Here are some of your other beauty treatment options:
• Direct jet inhalation treatment (wet inhalation). (The photos are disturbing!)
• Nasal douches
• Tubal insufflation of the tympanum

• Fangotherapy with therapeutic bath and rest. (some sort of special mineral mud treatment which requires resting afterwards!)
• Gynaecological irrigations (your yearly gyno exam isn't enough, you need an irrigation?!)
• Ascending intestinal douches

I was wondering about the proximity of a foundation undergarment store to the spas, but after all that irrigating and insufflation perhaps one needs some help holding it all together.

Listening to: "Otto e mezzo" Nino Rota from 8 1/2.
Snacking on: FRITOS!
Reading: Robert Graves short story, "The Shout," 1924.

Hey, not so fast.

2005-11-13T22:44:00.000-06:00

The nest is empty. Here are the birds. Then and now.

Nora tolerates Paddy's enthusiasm on the first day of school. Alas, that initial euphoria would be subdued in record time.

Now. Paddy tolerates Nora's enthusiasm with his customary restraint.

Reading: Utility bills.
Working on: Paying the bills.
Listening to: The cat purring. And Willie Dixon, "I live the life I love and I love the life I live."

Who was that masked man?

2005-11-13T22:30:00.000-06:00

Austin. Always ready for anything from rain to a masquerade. And, from an early age, a true animal lover.

Now. Ready for the move to Philly -- sans raincoat, critters. Not sure about the mask.

Reading: "Elementary Citizenship for Minnesota Schools" (1923).
Listening to: Duke Ellington -- C Jam Blues.
Snacking on: Constant Comment Tea and Lorna Doone cookies.

Swiftly flow the days.

2005-11-13T11:57:00.000-06:00

Meghan in the garden during the LaCrosse years. Why, just yesterday, right?

Meggie and Jeremy's engagement picture. Why, just last year, right?

First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
Then comes Jeremy with a baby carriage.

Currently listening to: NPR Weekend with Drunken Tiger, Korean Hip-Hop.
Reading: Target Circular.
Enjoying: My second cup of coffee.

Change is Good.

2005-11-12T23:48:00.000-06:00

Fair warning to the family out there--I've rearranged the furniture. Starting with the office. See. Neat and tidy. Clutter relegated to the netherworld of the basement. The family tends to get wigged out when I move something--we're talking about people who freaked out when I moved the silverware to a different drawer in the kitchen.

Recently watched: Scorcese's "The Last Waltz".
Listening to: Music from Last Waltz: Muddy Waters, Van Morrison, Dr. John, Neil Young, Dylan.
Currently eating: carmelized onions.
Current activity: Knitting an orange scarf.

Veterans Day (formerly Armistice Day). 2005

2005-11-11T23:33:00.000-06:00

. . . If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."

-- from "Dulce et decorum est" by Wilfred Owen (1917)

Translation: it is sweet and proper to die for your country.

Currently reading: Norton Anthology of English Literature
Listening to: Miles Davis

From Here to There

2005-11-10T22:41:00.000-06:00

Minneapolis to LaQuinta, CA in 3 days. Stevil heads west to avoid winter. See. He's a little nervous with anticipation.

For him: No snow. No shoveling. No one forgetting to flush the toilet.

For me: No cooking. (How does cottage cheese and fritos sound for dinner?) No schedule. Although, I do admit, it's a little unsettling to be rattling around in the house alone. I immediately jumped on the beds, stayed up till 2 a.m. Not because I was partying. Because I spooked myself thinking that every little noise would reveal an axe murderer walking the down hall. I'll get used to it. Good thing the watch cats are on duty.

Currently reading: New Yorker movie reviews.
Listening to: Dr. John. "Such a Night."
Eating: Cottage cheese and Fritos.

Do I see a pattern?

2005-11-10T22:38:00.000-06:00

The two must never meet.

Social Lubricant

2005-11-10T22:35:00.000-06:00

Carmichael Lynch's Happy Hour @ O'Donovan's Irish Pub to "meet the new." Nothing like free liquor to level the playing field and encourage social activity. Hello boys!

So, it's come to this.

2005-11-10T19:28:00.000-06:00

With Steve gone, breakfast becomes a face off with the cat for the paper, coffee and peanut butter toast. Have a nice day.

Recently seen: Capote
Reading: Minneapolis StarTribune
Eating: Toast!
Listening to: MPR

What we need

2005-11-06T20:02:00.000-06:00

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

-- from "Asphodel, that Greeny Flower"

Thomas Edward Nagan. Born 18 January 1957. Died 3 November 1996

2005-11-06T12:35:00.000-06:00

May the angels lead him into paradise. Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon him. Requiescant in pace.

Italy Outside of the War

2005-11-05T22:27:00.000-06:00

The Best Hobby I never Had.

2005-11-04T21:57:00.000-06:00

Yes, here is evidence of another artsy craftsy project that was never completed. Beads. So many choices. Buy a little of everything. In my family, we don't do anything the easy way: we choose the most complicated route. So, instead of making a simple bracelet, I had to choose some complicated form that I was never able to finish. But the beads. They're still beautiful. Yes?

88 Candles: thass a lot of fire!

2005-11-03T22:14:00.000-06:00

My mom a.k.a. Mary Jane Nagan, nee Farley, is 88 years old today! Here's to the mom who made potatoes for dinner almost every day of the year, made almost all of our clothes, including our underwear (after she discovered the fabric outlet store at Munsingwear), and even made chokecherry wine in the basement. Good times, Mom. Thanks for all of them.

My world includes: McMen

2005-11-01T20:35:00.000-06:00

Here is a photo of my fellas taken at Meggie's wedding last year. Paddy, age 20. Steve, age 55. Austin, age 28. Really, just to look at them makes my heart burst with joy. Or was it something I ate for breakfast?

Sea Holly Sunday

2005-09-20T20:35:00.000-05:00

Isn't nature amazing. You plant a little seed and it grows into something freaky, like this plant, or it is an alien?