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A lady of forty-seven who had been married twenty-seven years and has six children knows what love really is and once described it for me like this: ‘Love is what you’ve been through with somebody.’
James Thurber


My parents hid this in a cabinet while in town Friday and called me yesterday morning to tell me where to find it.  And I don’t know…I just think that’s the cutest thing ever.

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I don’t have to look up my family tree, because I know that I’m the sap. ~Fred Allen

And thank you for a house full of people I love. Amen.

Our most basic instinct is not for survival but for family. Most of us would give our own life for the survival of a family member, yet we lead our daily life too often as if we take our family for granted. ~Paul Pearshall

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

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Like so many Americans, we traveled a lot for the holidays.  Craptastic weather threatened most of the Midwest in the form of a blizzard dubbed by the social media world as “Snowmageddon,” but when it comes to Christmas, my family doesn’t fuck around, and there was no way I was letting the possibility of 24 inches of snow, freezing rain and a little bit of life-threatening sleet ruin my Christmas plans.  So I made the boyfriend drive (and by ‘made’ I mean that he drove because he barely lets me behind the wheel.  Even when the car is off.  Let alone when it going 20 miles per hour down the snow-packed freeway).  We traveled between Minneapolis, southern Minnesota, Wisconsin and back to Minnesota over three action packed days.

I can haz freeway?

A brief aside: Since moving back to the Midwest–I almost just typed “Wisconsin.” *Shudder* (Just kidding, guys!)–I’ve had several people comment on the way I announce the freeway.  Up until recently I’ve always thought I said, “I’m on the 494,” or, “I’m on *the* 10, heading into downtown.”

No one says “I’m on Freeway.” (I love lamp, anyone?) I would think the same holds true for “I’m on *the* 494.” Why would anyone say “I’m on 494”? Another example: “I’m eating *the* Cheeto.” singular.  Unless you want to say “I’m eating Cheetos,” plural.  In which case, that would be correct.

As time has continued, however, it has seemed to suggest that I may have developed this habit of inserting ‘the’ before the name of the freeway while living in Los Angeles. But I don’t remember a period of time where I’ve never *not* said ‘the’.  Can someone explain this to me?  Is this a Midwest thing that I just never noticed growing up?  If that’s the case, it reaffirms the fact that I’m still experiencing total culture shock almost a full year later, and what the fuck?

Mecca (if Christmas were a Muslim)

The lovely green package in the lower right-hand corner in a the above photo is a product of my brother’s superb wrapping skills.  It’s okay, he’s an “artist.”

Before the holiday, I had worked out a plan to fashion a home made cream cheese dip in the hope it would become my signature holiday food contribution.  But then the boyfriend did all of the work, and well, it became “Nate’s Dip that Karlie planned,” and sometimes I just think I have extraordinary magical powers.

When he is older, he will appreciate the fashion decisions made by his mother. HE WILL.

We ate too much and slept too little, with family we see far too infrequently, over a fantastic weekend that flew by far too quickly.  We drank the perfect number of Tom and Jerry’s and played Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” on the jukebox four too many consecutive times.  (As it turns out, that’s the perfect number.)

Hopefully everyone else out there had a beautiful holiday season and I wish you all a prosperous, joy-filled 2010.  Until January, Internet!

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My younger sister graduated high school this past Friday, which really is just another bullet point  in the litany of Reasons to Feel Old.  But, according to my mom, I’m no longer allowed to talk about feeling old because that makes her feel *really* old.  Congratulations to my college bound sister, and congratulations to my parents for raising three kids and sending them all off to college.

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The sibs

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“In the real world, these just people with ideas. They just like me and you when the smoke and camera disappear. Again the real world, it’s bigger than all these fake ass records. When poor folks got the millions and my woman’s disrespected. If you check 1,2, my word of advice to you is just relax. Just do what you got to do, if that don’t work then kick the facts. If you a fighter, rider, lighter, flame ignitor, crowd exciter, or you wanna just get high, then just say it. But then if you a liar-liar, pants on fire, wolf-cry agent with a wire, I’m gonna know it when I play it.”

Dead Prez, Hip-Hop

This past week has been a tough one for me and I haven’t written much because I haven’t felt like I’ve had anything particularly positive to contribute.  How is that any different than usual, you ask? HAHA, VERY FUNNY INTERNET.

I’ve been missing Los Angeles far more than I ever anticipated and have been a little bit depressed lately. That isn’t to say that there is anything wrong with Minneapolis because Minneapolis is a great city.  I just always assumed that upon moving back I would fall right back into my sense of Midwest normalcy. When I arrived I didn’t ever consider that I would have to try and adjust to living here.  I didn’t think that I would have to change anything or acclimate myself.  I assumed that being in a fresh city would just automatically be awesome, because I love cities.  And this city? It’s close to the people I love.  But that isn’t working out quite like I intended.  It’s almost as if I was expecting the city to automatically impress me; to jump out and say, “Hey! Moving here? How could you consider any other option?” Just because I was here. But it didn’t care that I never really tried adapt.  I didn’t know I would have to re-adapt.  I’m from this area, for God’s sake. The idea that I would have to try and adjust was something that didn’t occur to me in the slightest. (more…)

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one So far this week I’ve worked 22 hours.  It’s only Tuesday but who’s counting, right? I’m not exactly sure when I stopped being a lazy pile of crap and actually started to try, or care, to do things in a way that doesn’t totally suck, but I can say this: It seriously efs with my sleep.

In fact, I should be sleeping now.  As such,  rather than weaving a bunch of words  together to form a coherent post I decided to create…just a bunch of words.  (See left.  Click on image to enlarge).

I love that Wordle generated “FUCK” as only the third largest word on the screen.

*Special thanks to my friend Vicky at Even Artichokes Have Hearts for this link to Wordle.*

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A few days after Thanksgiving my family began circulating emails asking for Christmas wish list items and general holiday shopping guidelines. I’ve mentioned before that this Christmas will be the first that Boyfriend and I will have gotten to spend together since we began dating. Needless to say, the family units are thrilled. We’ve all seen the trailer for the new Reese Witherspoon and Vince Vaughn movie “Four Christmases.” Well, we’re attending five. Because, you know, when we do something we do it big.

Christmas, coupled with the fact that we’re moving home to the Midwest, and our families unparalleled joy in knowing that their children will be within driving distance of harassment means one only thing: Stuff. Particularly lots of new house stuff to furnish our new apartment. I love stuff. I especially love stuff that I don’t have to buy.

My mother, because she knows of my severe organizational and decoratively inclined neurosis has taken special care to inquire as to our “colors” for the bedroom, bathroom, common area/family room, and kitchen and has disseminated this information to the family. I heart her, but that’s a story for a different day.

My mom called last night to warn me that upon learning our primary kitchen color is red, my Grama excitedly decided to brave holiday shoppers. “I found the perfect gift for Boyfriend,” she says, and excitedly thrusts forward this:

386292MY GRAMA BOUGHT MY BOYFRIEND A CERAMIC LADYBUG FOR CHRISTMAS. For why? Not only have I expressed my fear of ladybugs on several occasions, but I’m unsure what it is about ‘ceramic ladybug’ that screams ‘perfect gift for Boyfriend.’ Even more importantly, I’m interested in the implications this gift conveys. Perhaps my Grama is less old fashioned than I thought and wants to see Boyfriend scrub some dishes? That’s something that I can totally get behind.

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