Home Makeover: Modern Mugwump Edition

Did a little makeover to my living room this weekend, courtesy of nice-guy-who-didn't-turn-out-to-be-an-ax-murderer who was selling an IKEA television stand that just happens to be, like, the missing piece from my collection. Seriously, so perfect.

I know I just moved in a few months ago, so you are probably wondering why I felt the need to rearrange.  When you figure out that answer, let me know because sometimes I really would love to just leave things as they are, omigod stop MOVING AND CHANGING EVERYTHING. Creative minds cannot be contained (see: selling my art, running a marathon, inventing "dream life scenarios" that mirror every single real life scenario I have, but flashier) and thus the furniture got all shifted around.

Before: messy and cavernous. Way too large for Cat and I.

After: messy still, because I live here (duh.).

Photos are a little hard to get the whole gist, but simply: one huge room is now 2 functional spaces. Move. The. Eff. Over. Martha Stewart. Eat my zen furniture dust (and boy was it dusty under that couch! whew). 

Unfortunately, Cat was a bit skeptical of the changes for a while.  I am not totally sure why but I can guess a few reasons:

1. He cannot both chew on the blinds and get his claws stuck in the couch at the same time.  

2. I spend more time in the seating area, but I put his toy den in the other half. He may think this is foolish oversight on my part, but I can assure you I am happy to have the stupid mouse with the freakish light up eyes somewhere where I don't watch scary movies. 

Anyway, he spent most of the day "hiding" from me.  He's real stealthy, see? 

But it didn't take him long to get back to his ol' self.

And he even warmed right up (literally) to the sunshiney place his perch is in.

Guest Bloggin' Like a... *

Just can't get enough of the Modern Mugwump? Wish you knew what was going on in my life at this. very. second?!

Really? That's creepy.  Cut it out.

Well, today you gotta check me out at Finding a Balance-- the blog of friend and Ragnar Relay 2009 teammate, Hyedi.

And since you came all the way to my blog, and I don't want to leave you empty handed, I give you this:

*NOTHING witty rhymes with "bloggin'"

On the Plains of North Dakota

Beautiful? Sure.  For a little bit.

By hour 8 on Interstate 94, headed westward through North Dakota from Minneapolis, this view gets a little old.  In fact, by the 8th hour in the car you have run out of stories for your road trip teammates to catch up on your hectic summer life.  You have already passed the giant bison in Jamestown:

and the world's largest holstein cow in New Salem (I don't know those people):



Apparently, this cow's name is Salem Sue.  Thanks, Google!

The land, while beautiful, is so empty that even your game of "those are my cows" has fizzled.  There simply are no cows to claim.  As the car travels west, the soft, flat landscape of the Dakota plains begins to give rise to a few rocky bursts as we hit the very earliest signs of the North Dakota Badlands and one road trip teammate cracks an "I like big buttes" joke that gets far more laughter than it deserves. Everything is funny during the 8th hour.

The road is flooded about 50 miles out of Dickinson, ND (our final destination) and everyone slows to a painful 45 miles per hour after sailing across the state at 80 or 85.  Passengers are overwhelmed by the feeling that we never want to be in a car again. For the rest of our lives. 

Phone calls and texts from Dickinson start coming in with less than an hour to go: "We're all checked in, can't wait to see you guys!" "Are you close?" "Will you pick up at least one case of beer?" "I think the groom's dinner includes free beer and wine." These messages feel like twinkling lights on the horizon-- we will make it and it will be good.

And it was good.  In truth, as boring as the drive can be at times, you cannot at some point be overwhelmed by the beauty and serenity of huge plots of land that remain virtually untouched.  It made me think, If there is such thing as 'God's country,' this truly must be it. And there is a charm to small towns that cannot be matched by the excitement and glamour of bustling cities.  Residents and strangers alike are all old friends, and life moves at a pace that allows one to truly enjoy a lively conversation over a hot breakfast and the summer breeze caught in the veil of a new bride.

Though a thousand-mile-round-trip-in-the-span-of-72-hours mini-vacation wasn't always riveting, the truth is I would have traveled much further and much longer to celebrate the wedding of dear friends, who now embark on a far greater journey of love, partnership, and compromise. 

May they continue to laugh at one another's 'big butte' jokes and not take every opportunity to kill the other's cows with each passing cemetery.

25 Things of Importance from My 25th Year

I kicked off the 25th year by going to the Red Bull Flugtag in Saint Paul.  Grown adults, about 6-8 per team, build falling flying machines and throw them into fly them over the Mississippi river.  Very fantastic way to celebrate one's birthday!

Brewhouse Triathlon in Duluth, MN.  This trip also included my first time swimming in Lake Superior and a chance to see the beautiful tall ships in a special event in the Duluth Harbor. 

The Muddy Buddy Race, where I learned that ski slopes are for skiing and mountain bikes are heavy.

A pop/rock concert with my grandma at the Target Center (American Idol on Tour).

Two lovely camping trips to the North Shore with two lovely friends, one of which who has a gift for cooking over a fire.

A trip to our nation's capitol, which I think should be called the City of Learning.  You cannot possibly be seeing Washington, DC right if you do not learn something.  Also got to see an exhibit by one of my favorite contemporary American artists, Chuck Close.

Defended my Masters thesis on a sunny Tuesday afternoon.

(So I am using my calendar to make sure I don't miss any important events) I wrote "Christmas Tree Extravaganza" on a weekend in December and at first couldn't figure out what on earth that meant.  But then I remembered: it means even as an adult, there is something very safe and a bit magical about getting to go to the home where you grew up, even if it is only 15 miles from your current home.

Right away into the new year I met someone who weekly reminds me to 'chill out,' taught me to play frisbee golf, also has good taste in beer, tells wonderful stories from around the world, routinely emails me "must hear this" music, and provides a lot of perspective when things feel chaotic.

The ladies of the family took a clay tiles class.  The lesson? Canvas and paint just makes more sense to me, but I did walk away with at least one awesome coaster and a cool trivet.

Had an article I wrote about going to ASA Fastpitch Nationals as a young teenager published in the ASA Softball magazine.

Weekend trip to Fort Myers, Florida to watch Twins Spring Training, hang out with two fabulous ladies, and eat delicious seafood at quirky restaurants.

Moved into my first "on my own" apartment in a quiet Saint Paul neighborhood.  Quickly discovered how expensive that is. 

Celebrated Mom's first 5K finish at the Get in Gear 5K at Minnehaha Park!

Toured local brewery, Surly, and fell in love with their story (I was already in love with the beer).

Bought a kitty.  Rescued a kitty.  I already can't remember what my home was like before he walked under my feet, meowed constantly, and left little bits of shredded [fill in with: paper, cardboard, styrofoam, flowers, spider plant]. 

Celebrated the graduation of 2 lawyers, a dentist, and a physical therapist.  My friends are freakishly smart.

Traveled to Decorah, IA for good beer and a lot of potato salad, good friends, a trombone quartet in a farm garage (as deer ran across the field- no kidding!), and 5 people in a tent.  Oh, and a dog the size of a horse. 

A long and trying few weeks responding to the North Minneapolis Tornado.  Today, I am proud to have been a small piece of the puzzle that helped bring the needed resources to those affected and hopefully in the coming months we will see a stronger Northside. 

Personal best time at the Buffalo Triathlon. Thank you, less hilly bike course!

Hung my first art show at the Minneapolis Skyway Senior Center.  Apparently drew a lot of opinions from some of Minneapolis's most experienced citizens...

Went to several Twins games (finally seeing Target Field) but the highlight had to be watching one from a suite.  Nothing makes me a fan like free food and cushy seats.

Enjoyed the Ordway's production of "Guys and Dolls" with Mom and Kim for Mother's Day/Kim's birthday.

Accepted and sponsored to present my work at a national summit in Atlanta, GA.

Started selling artwork on Etsy.  Sold 2 so far, although only to people I know...

It's been a good year.  I am feeling ready to head into the next quarter century!

Drugging Your Cat and Other Thursday Night Things To Do

A few weeks ago-- maybe even over a month now-- I became the owner/feeder/keeper of this charming orange ball of fury kitty.

This model of cat (who I named Jasper, after Jasper Johns who is a famous American artist) comes complete with 20 extremely sharp claws, a mouthful of needle sharp teeth, and one giant attitude.  Unfortunately, right after I got him, I was involved in the tornado response in North Minneapolis and any sense of regularity and schedule he and I had started to develop was totally destroyed.

Since then, we have had a series of minor, but no less annoying, owner-cat issues.  Some hyperactivity, some aggression, some attempts to destroy things that I would rather not have destroyed thankyouverymuch.  I tried feeding him more, and then less, and then different. We have reestablished a schedule, as much as possible.  We play for no less than 15 minutes every morning and every night.

And yet, the following things have happened this week:

1. At one point in the evening, I found him completely underneath my area rug in the living room.

2. He climbed through the blinds.  And then got stuck.

3. He wedged himself in the space between the storm window and the inside window. And then got stuck. 

4. He jumped onto the shower curtain rod. And then got stuck.

5. He spent 45 minutes at 3 AM jumping on the wall after a dead bug and letting the pads of his feet squeeeeeak all the way down the wall on his way back to the floor, where he landed with a thud! and a MEOW! before promptly jumping again. 

6. My feet have been attacked while I was doing the following: sweeping, sleeping, stepping into the shower, stepping out of the shower, coming into my apartment, leaving the apartment, sitting on the couch, feeding the cat.

And the truthiest truth  is that I love him for his quirks and the strange trouble he gets himself into. But tonight I was at Petco and I saw these treats (he loves a tuna treat!) that help calm cats.  Like, uh, kitty Xanax.  I had actually been told about this once before-- some herbal supplements to basically get your cat to just chill the eff out.  And I was totally against it! I wasn't going to drug my cat! I was simply going to love the bad behavior right out of him! 

At the moment I was walking away, I remembered a story a grad school classmate told me about traveling when she was a child.  When she was little her parents used to give all their kids Benadryl or some other drowsy-making medication that made them all zonk out for the duration of a flight or road trip.  So the kids basically had no recollection of traveling-- just being in new places.  It's not that these parents didn't love their kids, they just also valued their own sanity.  So for $5.99 I thought I would just try it, and if I ended up with some doped up, tuna treat addict for a cat, we could stop. Enter him into detox, and then stop, really.

I walked into the apartment at 5:47 PM and the moment of truth occurred just before 6 PM.  And guess what? He wasn't doped up, he didn't just crash and sleep the whole night.  In fact, he still got in a little bit of trouble.  But he wasn't on the verge of psychosis.  More importantly, I was not on the verge of psychosis. He was playful and he even bit me once, for old time sake.  But now, as we wind down for bed he is actually winding down.  Let the choir sing.  

The packaging says I can give him 1-2 per day.  $6 per pack, 21 treats in the pack = $2 per week for a happier household that I think we are both appreciating.  I can handle that. 

And Then There Were Nine (Again)

6 months ago, I regaled you with the tale of the first marathon training casualty. A little right pinkie toenail that disappeared into the night. Later, I gladly reported the little guy's return and a once again full set of stubby toenails.

It is with a heavy heart (but lighter foot?) that I report today the loss of the left pinkie toe toenail.

When I first decided to train for the ridiculous impossible foolish challenging marathon, the first piece of advice I got was "Read. Read. Read. Read everything and try everything." So I created some bookmarks, got a subscription to Runner's World, and starting amassing as much knowledge as possible. The first article I read? "101 Ways Running a Marathon Will Totally Destroy You and the 1 Single Way it Will Be Cool."* Way at the top of the 101 Ways This Will Be Miserable was the loss of toenails. And it was followed by all these phrases that tried to make the disappearance of a body part seem normative: 'It happens to everyone,' 'don't be alarmed' blah blah blah. Don't be alarmed when part of you is completely missing?! Please.

In my mind, I envisioned this bloody war between running shoe and human body, complete with the stained socks of battle, weeks of taping the toe in hopes of saving the nail, and finally the literal agony of defeat (de-feet?) when the little guy finally lost his will to be on my pinkie toe any longer. It was destined to be a battle that I was prepared to fight, even though I knew the end result would be the same.

But it didn't happen like that at all. No blood. No savagely bruised foot or toe. No futile efforts to save it. It just quietly slipped away. Less heroic and more like the little nail said, "Eff this, I am sick of being rubbed by this damn shoe all the time. I'm out."

In a lot of ways I am glad it went this way. Realistically, running socks aren't cheap and I didn't want to ruin a million pairs in a daily battle for toenails. Also, I bet most of you cringed more than once reading this because severe toenail pain is totally one of the worst kind of pains. I don't need that. But there is something about having this great battle story, the "mind-over-body, woman-goes-all-out-to-save-nail" epic that I feel I didn't get. I was prepared to fight for it, and my body didn't give me the chance.

Luckily, I have some MONSTER blisters to battle. Sexy.

*I mean, this could be a tiny bit of an exaggeration, but hardly.

Fartlekking

The fartlek is an interval training used by many athletes and specifically to build speed in runners.  Fartlek is Swedish for "speed play," giving the runner some idea that this type of training is play-like: fun, joyous, invigorating. 

It is not.  It is exhausting, grueling, and a bit painful on the feet/calves/hips.

What's the Swedish work for "speed hell?"

According to Google Images, fartlekking looks like this:

Notice her long stride, her relaxed posture during the slower intervals, how nice her t-shirt and shorts still look at the end of the last interval. 

Clearly, no one at Google has ever done one of these workouts.  The truth: The first fast interval feels awesome (for me, this is 2 minutes at a 6.5mph pace).  After the two minutes, I slow to a 5.6-6.0 mph for one minute and think, Gosh this is so easy! I could do this all day.  I am the picture of health and fitness! I repeat this 2 minute speed/1 minute jog 3 times until minute 9.  I am progressively starting to feel a little twinge in my legs and think, Twinge? That's fitness, baby! Keep rockin' out these miles! By minute 9 (when I get to walk briskly for 1 minute) I am thankful for a chance to rest a bit.  That 1 minute of walking goes by extremely fast, but I remind myself I am 1/3 of the way through the workout.  Only 20 more minutes to go.  So I repeat the 2 speed/1 jog cycle, but this time by around minute 15 I am ready to pass out.  I tell myself, You are already half way.  So stupid to quit now.  Just finish.  Stop looking at the clock and just run.  I am drenched in sweat.  I smell awful.  After a drink of water the saliva sticks to the top of my water bottle and makes a gross, gooey bridge from my mouth to the spout as I put the bottle back in it's holster.  By minute 19 (the next chance to walk), I am feeling better and decide to forgo my rights to a walking minute and run at a 7.0 mph pace through that minute.  I pay for this at exactly 25:43.  The last 10 minutes of the fartlek are a blur of Just get through it.  It will be done soon. and The pain in [fill your your favorite body part here] is quite noticeable.  By the time the little treadmill clock ticks from 29:59 to 30:00, I can hardly contain my joy.  I am a wheezing, sweating mess. 

All because Gosta Holmer, a Swedish running coach, was sick of getting beat by the Finns in the 1930s, once a week I have to sacrifice for the running sins of the slow Swedes. 

"Those cows are mine," the horse dog, 4 trombones, and other tales from south of the border

I know this is oh-so-late.  Forgive me. 

In the midst of a very emotionally and physically trying few weeks at work, I was granted my Memorial Day weekend and traveled to Decorah, Iowa.  I had previously only been to Iowa once and my experience can be summed up as: sludge in the hotel pool, stale donut for breakfast, an airplane engine for an air condition, and Ft. Madison prison.  Other than this trip, my ideas about Iowa came mostly from pop culture references such as:

This I like because, even though I don't know these guys, they are demonstrating an important fact about Iowa-- the highest elevation in the state is in a corn field. 

So, against my best judgment, I let myself be carted across the border on a sunny Friday afternoon, headed to Iowa.  Decorah, specifically, a place where 80 percent of the homes have gnomes in their yards or windows and no fewer than half the flagpoles fly the banners of Sweden or Norway, is an incredibly peaceful respite from the hustle of the Twin Cities. 

On the way, Aaron taught me a car game that I feel is perfect for driving through the heart of the Midwest: Those Cows Are Mine.  The rules are simple-- if you see a herd or small grouping of cows, you simply exclaim to all other people in the car, "Those cows are mine."  There is no counting of cows or herds; there is no score.  And if you see a cemetery, you want to be the first person to unleash havoc on everyone else's cow collecting by declaring, "Your cows are dead."  In all fairness, the passenger has a clear, insurmountable advantage in that they can look far and wide for the most hidden heard of cows to quickly claim as their own. 

Once I had claimed all of the Minnesota-Iowa cows I could, we arrived in Decorah and drove straight to Luther College, Aaron's undergraduate institution of learning and tromboning and other things uniquely college/young 20's.  The self-guided tour included the following distinct features of Luther College: The CFL, where music is played on a grand stage for a packed house; the Union; the library, including a Japanese rock garden under the stairs and a visit to the study corral Aaron used to do much of his research and writing; the library lawn; the music practice rooms; the art building; the science building; the gym where an infamous "Hard Body Plan" once took place; and various other significant buildings, landmarks, and lawns.

Decorah has a certain magnetic pull that seems to be an especially strong force on young men with large brass instruments in their trunks.  We met up with two of Aaron's closest friends from college (as well as the joyous fiancee of one of them), who also are accomplished trombone players (trombonists? tromboners? I am not sure...).  One of the best parts of the trip was driving down some rural roads just outside Decorah, 5 young adults in a powder blue Prius, sunburnt and relaxed after a day of site-seeing and frisbee golfing, to a small white farmhouse.  We pulled in to see four chairs and four music stands pre-arranged for the evening festivities-- a concert by a garage band, if garage band means impromptu trombone quartet.  It was an incredibly soothing experience for me, having just come from a city literally torn apart by disaster, to laze in a chair in the middle of the country and listen to four gentlemen make music and shoot the breeze.  It is here that we also met the horse dog, Magne.  Magne is a giant black Great Dane with the running gait of a fish out of water and sweet, sweet eyes.  While Magne is Norwegian for "fierce warrior," I would describe him as a pretty gentle giant. 

I am realizing this post is starting to get long, and probably isn't very cohesive... I apologize, but it is hard to weave into my own experience each of the stories shared by the young men about what the people and places in Decorah mean to them and this very strong kinship between them and this sort of fairytale place.  Every story has this fantastical, larger-than-life quality that makes you fall in love with all the characters.  I can say, hopefully with great clarity, that it is always wonderful to be welcomed into a group of close friends nearly immediately and with such warmth.  So much so, in fact, that sleeping 5 across in a 4 person tent is only crowded, but never awkward.

Put That in Your Instant Queue and Shove It

I have been responding to a tornado that hit North Minneapolis for 4 days now.*  The stories are heartbreaking, the work is grueling, and I am physically and emotionally exhausted.  Tonight I got home to watch a movie to unwind a little and Netflix suggested I watch Twister.

Twister? Twister?!

Fuck you, Netflix.  I want to cancel.

*I am not terribly comfortable expanding on the tornado given the heartbreaking stories and the fact that once something hits the internet, it never dies. 

A Literal Boatload of Lawyers

I am sure you have been checking back on my blog every day for the last nearly-month and imagined all the wondrous and amazing things that were keeping me away from the keyboard.  Did you think mountain climbing? Drinking sangria in the south of Spain? Breaking the world record in Olympic hurdles?

Well, you were close. But even more fabulous than all those things, I have been attending fresh-lawyer parties*!

Ingredients for a Fresh-Lawyer Party

8-60 Fresh Lawyers**

1-5 Unsuspecting Victims Girlfriends

54 High Fives

5 Discussions about Bar Prep Courses

22 Toasts boasting "Dude! We're done!"

Alcohol in quantities unmeasurable

Optional Ingredients

Paddleboat

A Sidewalk chalk drawing of Martin Van Buren

A deck of cards with, um... 'clothing optional' ladies

A half-naked Wisconsinite fresh-lawyer arguing the constitutionality of the Amish
Mashed potatoes served in a martini glass***

Throw all that in your martini shaker, add a dash of admiralty law, and top of your Martini Glass Mash with some broccoli and you are ready to... party! talk about the law.  Well, maybe it is more accurately a mix of both and it is surprisingly fun in a way only fresh-lawyer parties can be.  In fact, in legal speak, I could not be unaware of the amount of fun I had at all these parties that kept me from you.

Also, there is a lesser-known benefit of being a semi-regular attendee of fresh-lawyer parties: you yourself can win your very own fresh-lawyer!

*A "fresh-lawyer" is an individual who has just completed three grueling years of law school and has had (or is about to have) the degree of Juris Doctor conferred upon them.  They are easy to spot in the wild, as they often refer to themselves as "Dr. Talking About Myself in the Third Person." 

** A ripe fresh-lawyer is pale in color (from weeks in the library) and slightly soft when squeezed (grad school is rough on anyone's diet).  
*** I am serious.  And these were professional caterers that served a mashed potato bar in martini glasses.  And perhaps rightfully so.  What else says "legal professional" like a plastic martini glass overflowing with mashed potatoes and broccoli cheese topping? Nothing, that's what.