tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7892004718399213042011-11-27T18:03:07.524-06:00Midway: The NovelA girl, midway between a lot of things, trying to figure out what comes next.Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.comBlogger1601100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-84523557424770607682010-09-10T08:00:00.000-05:002010-09-10T08:00:04.150-05:00And then...what happened next1. Tony Volcano called, and not about flying time. No. He wanted to know why, after he’d flown in the mayoral special delivery (his words, not mine), I’d gone and kicked him to the curb.
Tony Volcano: You’re killing me, kid. I’m a romantic. I don’t like it. But that’s how it is.
Me: It’s a big cross to bear.
Tony Volcano: It is! Especially when I go out of my way to help young love along. And Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-18940149158686602692010-09-09T08:00:00.022-05:002010-09-09T08:00:02.935-05:00The Beginning of the BeginningI am now the new CEO (okay, I gave myself that title; I’m the majority owner and manager) of Bakker Bros. Sporting Goods store.So. I’m staying in Iowa.But not because of the disaster on the dance floor with Preston, whom I haven’t heard from since I spilled my guts and he looked at them and walked away. And not because I want to work things out with Jack. That’s pretty much completely over. Like,Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-31799954688066921592010-09-08T08:00:00.015-05:002010-09-08T08:00:10.571-05:00What You Don't KnowI think everyone has inside of themselves a little place they hide away bits and pieces of things – feelings, intuitions, realizations, what-have-you – so they can avoid processing these notions into something real and concrete. The reason behind it is primal, the most basic of all behaviors – self-preservation, an effort to protect oneself from that which might destroy.
At least, this is what IAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-32390350214467821302010-09-07T08:00:00.002-05:002010-09-07T08:00:03.205-05:00When You Know, You KnowEmily was probably one of the most radiant brides I’d ever seen. Seriously. She looked like one of those glossy brides in a magazine, all toothy, smooth and couture, only, like, real. And that made it so much better. Most of the day was a complete blur of make-up, hair, smiling for pictures, making sure the Blaire’s simulcast of the wedding went awry and keeping Chad’s mother at a safe distance Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-51225017405301297912010-09-04T08:00:00.009-05:002010-09-04T08:00:01.093-05:00Pillars of GracePreston: Who was that?Me: Jack.Preston: Oh.I sat down at the table, and said hello to Jill. She smiled for a moment and then looked down at her lap. She was far less energetic than I remember her being. She looked tired. Almost sad. I wished then that the bottle of white I’d ordered would arrive. Along with a cab.Me: He was just letting me know that he’s flying in for the rehearsal.Preston: I Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-28350763683531386282010-09-03T08:00:00.001-05:002010-09-03T12:43:19.448-05:00Chance EncountersIt took just over two hours in light traffic to get from wedding central outside Mishawaka, Indiana, to downtown Chicago, where I had a lunch meeting with Alma Rodriguez, head of Rodriguez + Stevens, a medium-sized PR firm focused on small businesses.
Though I was planning to really downplay the lunch part, it’d been a long time since I’d had to zip up a pencil skirt, and if there was room for Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-63004302059800764602010-09-02T07:00:00.000-05:002010-09-02T07:00:06.903-05:00ConversationsUncle Dan: So. Wren. You raising some hell there in Indiana?
Me: If by raising hell you mean drinking sweet tea vodka on the porch while wielding a hot glue gun, then yes. Much hell has been raised.
Uncle Dan: That’s my girl.
Me: So what’s up?
Uncle Dan: Actually. I have a sales rep sitting right across from me here trying to talk me into stocking some of those barefoot running shoe contraptions.Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-35656542369645941502010-09-01T08:00:00.005-05:002010-09-02T21:26:08.473-05:00Super TuesdaySo I am, officially, a politician’s girlfriend.
Jack won the special election last night with 68 percent of the vote – a tasteful margin, he said.
Tasteful. Something about that really got my dander up.
Me: So what would you have considered outside the bounds of taste?
Jack: Anything more than that, really. At this level, you want to keep these contests as friendly as you can.
Me: So you did Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-28841507381472958282010-08-31T08:00:00.001-05:002010-08-31T08:00:02.630-05:00MigrationsDad called this morning and left this voicemail: “(static, static) they’re here! (static, static) first one landed (static, static) fall! (static, static).”
To recap: They’ve landed; they’re here. Fall.
Either he saw a bird or has gone all Mel Gibson circa Signs.So I called him back.
Me: What landed?
Dad: Mom and I saw a couple Monarchs hanging out in the hydrangeas this morning.
One of the Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-72443006377822332082010-08-30T08:00:00.004-05:002010-08-30T14:14:40.790-05:00Blaire on the LooseThe last time I was in Chicago, I had to bail Blaire’s ass out of jail; apparently that little episode red flagged her visa renewal application. So if she leaves Canada to attend the wedding, she can’t go back.Those Canadians are smart like that.If you ask me – which no one has – she orchestrated the whole thing on purpose. Because now Emily and Chad’s wedding is also about Blaire and the border Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-42675417122397165972010-08-27T07:36:00.000-05:002010-08-27T07:36:01.768-05:00The Eagle and the WrenThere was a package for me in the mail today. It was flat and longish, nondescript. Inside was a copy of the September issue of Field and Fowl magazine, the one with Preston’s falconing story in it.
I assumed Preston had sent me a copy since he had used my dad as a background source. My dad wasn’t a falconer himself, but he knew a fair bit about the sport, and he was a patient teacher, a good Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-32093695755661989402010-08-24T20:57:00.001-05:002010-08-27T07:31:09.214-05:00Making Scenes, Part Deux: Ding Dongs and Other Snack CakesScene 1: The grocery store, near the rack of ding dongs and other snack cakes.
Characters: Wren Bakker, Wren’s grandmother Mirabelle and Jan De Koster, the town gossip.
The situation: Jan spots Wren and head’s toward her; Wren is too busying eyeing the Hostess and Little Debbie goodness to notice the impending attack. Mirabelle has just gone to the bread aisle to get a package of fresh buns forAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-71865193832648313282010-08-23T08:00:00.001-05:002010-08-23T14:59:41.704-05:00ConfrontationsGrandma went on her first date in nearly 50 years, although she blushed and got after me when I called it a date. She said it was a simple friendly get-together at the café. Not a date. So I had better stop calling it that. She’d decided to meet Alexi, and from what Sarah and I had found out on Google about him, he seemed legit. Accomplished professor for 30-some years, married until his Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-79315768559079241242010-08-19T07:30:00.000-05:002010-08-19T07:30:29.032-05:00NewsSo as much as my dad loves birds, as much of his life as he’s devoted to spying on them through binoculars or training his ear to pick out a bluebird that’s in distress from a redbird that’s hunting nest materials from a blackbird that’s on the lam or writing grants for local nature conservancies or taking local 4-H clubs on guided tours of native wildlife habitats, you’d think he’d be something Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-88629983431242909862010-08-16T07:30:00.001-05:002010-08-16T10:39:48.159-05:00GoogleSarah: You can't be serious.Me: Oh but I am. Very.Sarah: No.Me: Yes.Sarah: No.Me: Um. Yes.Sarah: For real?Me: That's what I've been saying for the last five minutes.Sarah: Well hell's bells.Me: I know, right?She sat there for a minute idly stirring her tea while I patted Lark on the back, trying to work out a decent burp.Sarah: It doesn't seem like the kind of thing that happens in real life.Me: Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-4637969086478652022010-08-12T08:00:00.002-05:002010-08-12T08:00:07.492-05:00Matters of the HeartNot only did Trent Vande Brink leave his wife for the unknowns of Idaho to find himself, he also left his mistress, Brady Bender’s wife. Turns out, she wasn’t exactly what he wanted either. Now, with Trent no longer an option, or because she realized Trent was no match for her kind-hearted, hard-working husband, Christa and Brady were attempting to work it out under the glare of the small-town Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-49693384855490043112010-08-11T08:00:00.012-05:002010-08-11T08:00:05.996-05:00Bits and Pieces1. When I arrived at my flight lesson yesterday morning, Tony Volcano had constructed an air conditioner for the plane out of a box of ice, a duct hose and a blower fan from an old salvaged car. I immediately thought that I needed to introduce Tony Volcano to my uncle Dan.2. While we were flying, during a random conversation I told Tony my dad was an avid bird-watcher; he said that explained my Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-33499660610521260612010-08-10T08:00:00.002-05:002010-08-10T08:00:04.347-05:00So.So.So.I didn’t know what to say. When he said he was falling in love with me. Mostly because -- I guess -- I was surprised? Not surprised. Overwhelmed? Overwhelmed. Aside from a couple of posters of Joey from the New Kids on the Block when I was in third grade and my college boyfriend, I’d never said the L-word to anyone. Not in that way. So, I didn’t know what to say. And it wasn’t like he Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-60638749736451098102010-08-09T08:00:00.002-05:002010-08-09T08:05:34.390-05:00The Right ThingJack: What? She needs a job, Wren.Me: Yeah, but she thinks I put you up to it, and she’s pissed people are feeling sorry for her. People like Margot do not like being pitied.Jack: Did you tell her I thought of it all on my own?Me: Yes.Jack: So then what’s the issue?Me: The issue is, I don’t understand why you had to be the one to solve her problem. Maybe she should go out and – I don’t know – Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-23927844704192226022010-08-06T10:20:00.000-05:002010-08-06T10:20:00.977-05:00Good IntentionsMe: Why haven't we talked about this before?Mom: Because it's embarrassing.Me: Because it's messy?She didn't say anything.Me: I love that you and Dad have that kind of understanding -- that kind of kindness for each other. But it doesn't work out that way for everyone. You know that.Mom: Of course I know that. But Jack is a good man, Wren. Your father really made an effort to mentor him after hisSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-56164896846024426442010-08-05T09:00:00.000-05:002010-08-05T09:36:11.911-05:00There Goes the BrideThere is a restaurant in Chicago that Preston loves. It's called in*gre*di*ent. And I think it's ridiculous. What's wrong with plain old ingredient? Or, God and all his saints forbid, Ingredient?
Ingredient has four syllables. So what? Who cares? Is having that fact emblazoned on the menu supposed to upgrade the mixed greens salad into some kind of haute cuisine? I refuse to reward that kind of Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-30309596224634714652010-08-03T07:16:00.002-05:002010-08-03T07:19:10.925-05:00This is just to sayI found Mom's stash of wedding magazines. There are 7. All from summer 2010.Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-34328312805933110332010-08-02T09:26:00.005-05:002010-08-03T08:09:55.402-05:00Gear HeadSo here's a fun fact: I was the only girl in my high school class who took shop. And not just one semester. Four years. With Mr. Casey, a mechanical engineer who'd made millions -- probably billions by now -- designing and then patenting some small doodad that improves boiler efficiency.His fortune made, he decided to teach shop in Iowa, where he was a thorn in the side of everyone who couldn't Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-18172655309495687192010-07-30T08:00:00.001-05:002010-07-30T08:00:05.177-05:00Redwings and Right WingsThe special election campaign event for Jack the night of my birthday was really not so much for campaigning purposes as for his supporters (fellow lawyers, old friends of his father’s in the police department and sheriff’s office, his mother’s teacher friends and colleagues, his clients, etc.) to give him a big good-ol’-boy pat on the back in the last couple of weeks before the election. Small, Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-89502539144420332062010-07-29T13:00:00.026-05:002010-07-29T13:00:00.626-05:00Bird SongsToday is my birthday, the last year of my 20s. I feel no different than I did yesterday or the day before, or even last year. Except that now I can pretty much fly a plane on my own, make a rudimentary commercial, live with my Grandmother, be an aunt to two nephews plus a niece, restore a tractor and run a sporting goods store. Come to think of it, those are all things I’ve learned to do in the Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-12123070893695890572010-07-28T08:00:00.001-05:002010-07-28T08:00:03.022-05:00Flying SoloI’ll never be able to adequately explain to you in words how it feels to fly a plane completely by yourself, not just manipulating the controls without assistance, but manipulating the controls, taking off, landing, all completely alone inside the plane.
So I won’t even try to tell you what it was like.
Only that it was fan-freaking-tastically frightening, thrilling and addictive.
I’d been Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-32685031545301424542010-07-27T08:02:00.002-05:002010-07-27T08:02:00.264-05:00The Prime Rib DealI was still self-conscious about my face – and hands, and arms and shoulders and basically the rest of my scabbed-over body – when I met up with Jack to work on the tractor yesterday. It was hot. Like sauna hot. Like trapped in the trunk of a black car in a windowless garage in the center of the sun.Not like I would know. About the trunk part. Or the center of the sun.My point is, it was so damn Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-45356530595908496732010-07-26T09:03:00.001-05:002010-07-26T19:28:24.815-05:00Tough Enough for MargotWhen I asked Margot if I could film her for a new Tough Enough commercial, she said no. As in, no-way-absolutely-positively-not-in-a-million-years-not-even-if-you-paid-me no. But God bless her, she never said one word about my scabby, pock-marked face that was still healing from last week's battle with the pox.
Me: But Margot. I saw you peeing in the bushes at nine months pregnant. That’s prettyAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-81123320428883441762010-07-23T07:00:00.001-05:002010-07-23T07:49:24.405-05:00Happy1. Mom and Emily are in the cahoots. I don't know the details because it happened while I was napping, but when I woke up, I found a note on the table: Wren. Out looking for 4-ounce Mason jars. We're going to make jam. For wedding favors!!! Call us when you wake up. Em.
2. They've been making jam for practically two days straight and trying to feed me samples on Saltines, and then being insultedSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-67252552788749894372010-07-22T08:00:00.000-05:002010-07-22T08:01:51.368-05:00Bird ButtPreston: Show me your butt.
Me: Excuse me?
Preston: Just turn around and give me a little look-see.
Me: Absolutely not.
Preston: Please?
Me: No. I'm sick.
Preston: Gawd. Wren. I just want to know what your butt says.
Me: What my butt says. Really.
Emily: For crying out loud. It says butt quack, Preston. They're duck pajamas.
Dad: Mallard, actually. You can tell because of the bright Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-63933107569635358482010-07-21T07:00:00.000-05:002010-07-21T07:45:01.551-05:00VisitorsAfter Margot's bouquet, one arrived from Candice and her mother.
Then Grandma sent over an obscene number of chocolate peanut butter cookies and a stack of Susan Elizabeth Phillips books.
Ike and Abe made me cards. Ike's -- Sarah's caption explained -- featured Ironman dueling it out with a chicken (the one that'd made me sick, apparently), and Abe's had a picture of a rainbow trout. At least, Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-5203885470755268402010-07-20T08:00:00.003-05:002010-07-20T08:06:02.102-05:00Time of TrialThere are certain things that are non-issues for nine-year-olds with chicken pox.
1. They don't have boobs; ergo, their boobs don't itch. Like fracking crazy.
Hey. I'm just being honest.
2. While their mothers may be concerned about scars, they probably aren't bringing up wedding photos with every other breath. Every. Other. Breath.
And it's probably a little less obnoxious when their mothersSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-79229309636449879312010-07-19T09:30:00.001-05:002010-07-19T09:53:41.479-05:00OverzealousI asked Dan if I could call Brandon to rescind his job offer, but Dan said I couldn't.
Because apparently that would be "unethical."
And showing up for a job interview shedding the varicella-zoster virus was only the "honest mistake" of a "highly motivated, if overzealous" young man.
Overzealous my left butt cheek. Stupid is as stupid does.
But then I had hired him.
In any case, I'd had a Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-67864790369983226362010-07-15T08:00:00.000-05:002010-07-15T08:00:01.680-05:00Black SwansHere’s the thing: I was never looking for a relationship with anyone when I came back home, let alone Jack Seward. But much to my surprise if I stopped long enough to think about it, here I was in what I guess you’d call a relationship with a guy who I hadn’t thought knew I existed. Until I waved a box of tampons at him in the grocery store all those months ago. I’m not what you’d call a Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-86943889966810742652010-07-14T09:00:00.008-05:002010-07-14T09:00:09.271-05:00Tough Enough for DanSix years after the fact, I had a whole bunch of good-looking, athletic college-age guys all lined up to talk to me.
The Tough Enough for Dan campaign had officially launched and was quite a success as local commercials and YouTube videos go. Candice's (now ex) boyfriend had edited my hours' worth of Dan baling hay, spraying fields, demonstrating new climbing gear, building the chicken coop intoAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-41070047581155098372010-07-12T09:00:00.001-05:002010-07-12T09:00:01.708-05:00LarksThe reunion had gone over without (much of) a hitch. Brady Bender’s truck had been returned. I’d even had a few laughs with Jack about my spending several hours in the slammer, after, of course, I’d explained delicately that my grandmother had just shown up to bail me out and said there was no need to involve anyone else, let alone a lawyer, which is why I hadn’t called him. He seemed satisfied Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-29859557270723432772010-07-08T07:00:00.001-05:002010-07-08T07:43:36.132-05:00And ThenI spent the afternoon incarcerated.
In all the confusion, I'd forgotten to let Brady Bender know I still had his truck.
And he'd reported it stolen.
So when one of the county deputies pulled me over, and I couldn't produce my license -- which was in the purse I'd left in the corner of Sarah's room at the hospital -- or find the registration in the glove box, I suppose it didn't come across as Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-67850158187325917632010-07-07T07:00:00.000-05:002010-07-07T07:56:30.863-05:00Born on the 4th of JulyIn the time it took to drive to the hospital and get Margot settled, I missed 37 calls. One from Jack. One from Preston. And 35 from my mother.
Thirty-five.
Jack and Preston had both left voicemails, which is the reasonable thing to do when someone doesn't answer the phone. Unless, of course, you're my mother, and you believe that by the sheer force of your will that call will be answered.
It Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-73292116799840707512010-07-06T08:00:00.000-05:002010-07-06T08:00:08.013-05:00Redneck JesusJosh Bakker (no relation) brought a bunch of 36-inch sparklers to the reunion for the kids.
This incensed Lyla Van Regenmorter, his old flame from 10th grade, who informed him, loudly, that only a stupid moron would equip children on sugar highs with three feet of fire.
That got Josh's dander up. So he lit about five of them and started careening around the drinks table -- where Lyla stood withSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-87257798556393010312010-07-02T09:14:00.002-05:002010-07-02T09:17:30.837-05:00Things that make me go “hmm”I heard a rumor (because small towns are like high schools which are like small towns) that Margot’s husband is cheating on her. Apparently, someone caught Trent Vande Brink in a rather compromising position with the manager of the local fitness center, a gal who just so happened to be Trent’s old eighth-grade girlfriend who just so happened to be Mrs. Brady Bender. Much like in the world of Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-51922236748178035862010-07-01T08:00:00.000-05:002010-07-01T08:00:07.595-05:00He Thinks My Tractor's SexyAfter Larry had chewed up not one, but two, dirty diapers today, I was ready for a break. I called Jack and told him to meet me at my Uncle Dan's farm a couple miles down the road from my parents'. I told him to wear something he could get dirty in, and I could tell by the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone that he thought I meant something completely different from what I actually Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-5249052043094895782010-06-30T07:30:00.000-05:002010-06-30T07:34:41.619-05:00The Wisdom of .38 SpecialThe butterfly-shaped steering wheel in a Cessna 182 is called a yoke. I know this because Tony Volcano told me, rather firmly, after I'd referred to it as the steering-wheel thingy one too many times. He's a purist.The steering-wheel thingy controls the elevators (the flappy deals sticking out on either side of the tail of the plane) which in turn affect the attitude of the plane (how far up or Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-13609655606043567712010-06-29T07:00:00.000-05:002010-06-29T07:00:09.213-05:00BloatSarah's feet looked like pasty white overstuffed sausage casings. I told her so, and for that, she made me rub them, which grossed me out quite a bit. Sarah was on bedrest for the remainder of her pregnancy due to some intense water rentention and a bit of high blood pressure. Nothing to worry about too much, but as a precautionary measure, the doctor asked her to stay off her feet. That meant I Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-49722812970603609682010-06-25T12:16:00.003-05:002010-06-26T15:39:22.748-05:00Strange EncountersI'm not pregnant. I've never been pregnant. I'm not sure if I ever intend to be pregnant. So I understand that I have little to no perspective, at all, on the condition. And so I shouldn't have decided opinions or make sweeping statements about what I will and will not do should I ever end up in the family way.
Still. I can say with 100 percent certainty that I will not be running, especially Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-246953970032719732010-06-24T08:00:00.001-05:002010-06-24T14:22:21.375-05:00HeartbreakerMirabelle my heart -My love is yours and yours alone. If it makes me mad, I'm happy to be a fool. I could no sooner stop the moon pulling the tide than to stop my heart to be permanently established, painfully, always to yours. There is no one for me but you. And not for you, but me. We are each other.Who, then, is this Isaac? Who is he to spend a pleasant hour with you, watching the sunlight Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-3997760791844147582010-06-23T08:30:00.003-05:002010-06-23T08:38:42.280-05:00Another Small InterruptionFrom Midway: The NovelFrom Midway: The NovelStacey! If you already own North and South, shoot me an e-mail and we'll work something else out.Thanks for reading!Amanda and SusieSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-22229095931575980972010-06-22T08:43:00.000-05:002010-06-22T08:43:31.236-05:00Reality CheckInsert-f-word-here Kurt friended me on facebook, and in a moment of weakness and nostalgia, I granted his request and was almost immediately sorry. I have standards. I spend more time unfriending than friending. Great Aunt Bertha doesn't need snoop around to see what photos I've been tagged in. Neither does my mother.
But I wasn't sorry enough to undo the deed. Because Kurt also counts both CalSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-57787272662417634252010-06-21T09:48:00.002-05:002010-06-21T10:29:26.054-05:00(Sur)realityI took I-80 across Iowa on my way back to reality. Or (sur)reality, depending on how you look at it. And I look at it both ways.
Yes, I'd spent Thursday night bailing Blaire out of the clink where she'd been hauled off for instigating and participating in a barroom brawl because she sucker punched some guy who'd landed a two-hand squeeze of her bumper -- only she sucker punched the wrong guy andSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-28030847203141111522010-06-18T09:00:00.002-05:002010-06-18T10:24:44.319-05:00Bachelorette Truth or DareEmily had made the executive decision to keep things simple for her bachelorette party, which was fine with everyone except her sister Blaire. Of course. It was Thursday night, after all, and Thursday night was no time for a pack of squealing sparkly ladies with a pocketful of truth or dares. And we weren't really a pack of squealing sparkly ladies, and we did not have any truth or dares.
We Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-78079328847442443142010-06-17T09:00:00.001-05:002010-06-17T09:00:00.652-05:00Penises on the Open RoadRight before I got in my car to drive to Chicago to host Emily’s bachelorette party, my grandma presented me with two dozen pink-frosted sugar cookies that were shaped like penises. Apparently, she had spent yesterday afternoon while I was at work cutting, baking, frosting and stowing the phalluses in a disposable container she made sure to tell me that she wouldn’t need back. I asked her where Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-38053503934364943712010-06-16T08:00:00.000-05:002010-06-16T08:09:19.814-05:00Reunited. And it feels so good.T-minus 17 days to the class reunion. I'd been busting my behind contacting former classmates and collecting RSVPs. Since Margot had been strategic in her complete and utter lack of initiative with the event, I'd made a lot of phone calls, sent a lot of emails and even set up a website.
I called it a grassroots effort, a green campaign to bring people back home (or gather up all the people who Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-24280104923510216582010-06-14T07:36:00.002-05:002010-06-14T08:44:23.755-05:00Highlights of My Weekend1. Had another flying lesson. I may or may not have a crush on Tony Volcano, my flight instructor. He's not attractive, even remotely. But he's got these huge, hairy hands that I find oddly sexy. And everything that comes out of his mouth seems to be a life lesson of some sort: "Hold on, Wren. You're flying the plane now, not the other way around." I'm embarrassed. He's also married. More Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-22600795948140013272010-06-11T08:00:00.000-05:002010-06-11T08:49:12.362-05:00Adventures in BabysittingSarah had a doctor's appointment last yesterday afternoon to check on the littlest Van Morten. Dirk wanted to make a date of it, which I suppose is romantic, and asked if I'd watch the boys. And Larry.
Jack offered to come over to help, but I turned him down. Sarah and I always spied on our babysitter -- Angie Vanderhoff -- and I have very distinct memories of her boyfriend Blaine drinking our Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-5984141612034385242010-06-10T07:00:00.000-05:002010-06-10T07:00:00.228-05:00A Helpful Smile in Every AislePreston's never darkened the door of a Walmart. On principle, mostly, and because it's not a very hipster thing to do.
But after my flying lesson -- which was equal parts terrifying and exhilirating -- mom sent me to pick up groceries for Sunday lunch, and nothing could have kept him from tagging along, not even a platoon of souped-up Chevys with balls hanging from their trailer hitches.
Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-41993127507446489602010-06-08T07:00:00.000-05:002010-06-08T07:51:26.525-05:00Ed Wood IIYou know those people who bring in a steady stream of cakes and cookies and artisan chocolates into the office because they "just can't" have them sitting around at home? The people who make elaborate desserts and then won't eat them because somehow the process of measuring and mixing and preheating the oven prevents them from being able to enjoy the finished product, probably because they've Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-20813993763272492052010-06-07T14:37:00.003-05:002010-06-07T14:42:19.783-05:00Ed WoodPreston swept into town late Friday night with The One Jill. It was a last-minute trip, the local hotels and motels were booked with civil war reenactors, and they ended up bedding down at Chez Eleanor. Which Eleanor relished. Relished because almost every aspiration Mom's dared to dream for me has been realized in Jill.Mom: Did you know she gardens?Me: I did not know that.Mom: She belongs to a Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-64607255024299259222010-06-04T09:30:00.003-05:002010-06-04T09:30:00.961-05:00We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming,To bring you this short(ish) recap in honor of our 104th post:Our story opens in Chicago where one Wren Elizabeth Bakker falls down some stairs, rips her skirt, finds out her roommate Emily is engaged and that the happy couple is evicting her from their love nest.W.E. doesn't process sudden change or public humiliation all that well, so it is a really awful terrible no-good day. But later there'sSusannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-20432722613715001852010-06-04T09:00:00.001-05:002010-06-04T09:00:02.797-05:00The Bird’s Eye View, Part IIIf you really want to change your perspective -- and also feel simultaneously thrilled, sick, claustrophobic and mesmerized -- get in a soap box derby car with wings. And by that I mean a single engine aircraft. “Aircraft” is the word my flight instructor Tony used. Tony Volcano. That’s his name.I’m not even kidding.I finally took my grandpa’s advice and cashed in my flying lessons. The first oneAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-22499535039302718402010-06-03T09:00:00.003-05:002010-06-03T09:00:00.537-05:00RevelationsSarah met Dirk Van Morten for the second time during the first week of their freshman year in college. Dirk remembered Sarah from their summer orientation group back in June, saw her sitting on the Green with her roommate one hot afternoon and walked over to say hello and invite her to the outdoor movie that night. Sarah didn’t remember him.When Dirk tells the story, he will say it was he who Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-75782253632207541452010-06-02T07:30:00.000-05:002010-06-02T07:30:00.812-05:00The Bird’s Eye ViewYou know how in junior high art class there was always a unit on perspective? You’d have to make those line drawings, or maybe a cityscape using a vanishing point. You’d talk about worm’s eye view and bird’s eye view and on and on. And then you’d get the only B you ever got in junior high?Maybe that was just me. Perspective never really has been my strong suit.Which is why I called Sarah. After Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-13153641445447220882010-05-31T08:00:00.003-05:002010-05-31T08:00:00.546-05:00He Walked Up to Me and He Asked Me If I Wanted to DanceI swear to God, Jack did a double take when I walked down the stairs. I think Grandma did too. Both were standing at the front door, and I was suddenly reminded of senior prom. All the plucking, primping, buffing, shaving, smoothing, curling and painting had been totally worth it for that moment. In both instances. It’s amazing what a little make up and a well-fitting dress can do.The wedding wasAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-2496917462670213752010-05-28T07:00:00.000-05:002010-05-28T07:00:05.342-05:00DressedI have spent the entirety of my paycheck -- and then some -- overnighting six dresses from JCrew. Three of them are the same dress in different sizes.
For that, I kind of hate Jack Seward.
Because going to a wedding as his last-minute date, or plus one, or whatever it is that I am, comes with certain obligations. Namely to dress in a manner that serves as an appropriate foil for his Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-23675562450767106532010-05-27T07:00:00.008-05:002010-05-27T08:33:52.246-05:00The things we missWhen I was in high school, I attended the 69th, the 70th, the 71st and the 72nd National FFA Conventions. There were hypnotists and CEOs and broadcasters and the like. They were sometimes interesting, sometimes bland, and, for the most part, said moderately inspirational things. But still. Words cannot express the incredible injustice that at the 82nd National FFA Convention, Mike Rowe was the Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-82282815555341236162010-05-26T07:00:00.000-05:002010-05-26T07:50:14.944-05:00ManeuveringsPhone Call 1: My office, over lunch.
Me: Hello? Is this Christa?
Christa Calhoun: Yes. May I ask who's calling?
Me: Christa, it's Wren Bakker. From high school.
Christa Calhoun: I heard you were back in town.
Me: Yes that's true. Anyway. I'm sure you know the class reunion is coming up. I'm helping put together a little party for July 3, and Brady Bender -- can you believe Brady's vice Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-7160600922893395222010-05-25T07:00:00.001-05:002010-05-25T07:48:47.952-05:00ReputationsWell. That didn't take long.
I Googled video editing software reviews, was promptly overwhelmed and have decided to outsource the project. To Candice's boyfriend Dylan. Who needs a project for summer school, which is punishment for some prank involving disassembling the football coach's Jeep and reassembling it in the cafeteria.
It wouldn't have been a big deal. Or it would have been less of Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-90717233811561048902010-05-24T07:00:00.000-05:002010-05-24T07:54:43.759-05:00First ThingsIn the eyes of a certain demographic, working at a sporting goods store instantly qualifies you as an expert on chafing, itching, corns, bunions and fungal infections of all varieties. All varieties. Unfortunately.
It takes a strong stomach and an even stronger will to stifle the gag reflex long enough to nod sympathetically -- or frantically -- and point to the Gold Bond or the Dr. Scholls or Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-55114001805186414302010-05-21T08:00:00.000-05:002010-05-21T08:00:01.498-05:00ScoreMy ten-year class reunion was going to be held at the country club on the lake (that was really a pond) at the municiple golf course. It was by far the classiest place in the county, but the only problem was, the banquet room at the club was booked already for Saturday, the third of July. This was no surprise considering the short-notice and the fact that it was a holiday weekend and during the Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-51858586488554289472010-05-20T09:00:00.000-05:002010-05-20T09:00:02.030-05:00Sound BitesPreston: I'm coming for a visit.Me: Miss me?Preston: Always. But I'm coming more for your father.Me: He's married.Preston: Wren. Me: He is! Plus he doesn't swing that way. Sorry.Preston: Seriously. I am coming to do reporting on that falconing series your dad helped me conceptualize.Me: Conceptualize, huh. Is that a fancy way of saying you're stealing his idea?Preston: He's my muse.Me: So when Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-65230133459562514192010-05-19T07:30:00.001-05:002010-05-19T07:30:01.629-05:00Margot's Last ResortDo you ever get that feeling like something big is going to happen but you don't know if that something big is going to be really great or really sucky?Well, I had that feeling today, right before I ran into Margot De Koster at the local greasy spoon during breakfast. Margot, the spawn of Jan, pusher of midriff-baring uniforms and homecoming court vote recounts, instructor of three-a-day aerobicsAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-28809131507011946952010-05-18T07:00:00.000-05:002010-05-18T07:00:05.172-05:00The Blaire Witch Rides (Everything in Toronto) AgainEmily called to warn me that her sister would be calling. Soon. With an agenda. Blaire would want to know what the bachelorette party details were – times, locations, appetizers, activities, naughty toys, etc. Luckily, I’d just finalized everything against my better judgment. Emily was more of a “let’s start somewhere and see where the night takes us” sort of gal, but Blaire was not. And since Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-10634890225747157242010-05-17T08:00:00.000-05:002010-05-17T08:00:01.063-05:00ReevaluatingSo I gave in. I’ve downloaded no less than 35 apps in the last few days for my iPhone, some of which include CNN Mobile, NPR Mobile, Quote.com, iBird Explorer Backyard (for Dad), Flick Fishing (for me) and Zombie Pizza (for everyone really. I mean, who doesn’t want to race against the clock to feed ravenous zombies some pizza?).
As a self-proclaimed technophobe, I’m officially frightened by how Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-78252395394001318622010-05-14T07:00:00.000-05:002010-05-14T08:20:13.931-05:00iDon't iPhoneThe other day I got a package in the mail. It was an iPhone with a note: You don't write, you don't call, and we miss you. Learn to text. Faster.
The note wasn't signed, but it was definitely Preston's brand of snark.
So I called him.
Me: I don't iPhone.
Preston: Yes. And that makes you a little backward.
Me: If I cheat on Verizon, I'll have coverage 47 percent of the time.
Preston: I Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-61157015266539536962010-05-13T22:51:00.000-05:002010-05-14T08:20:28.612-05:00MantrapI am so going to bust some heads. And yes. I am serious.
Well. One head, anyway. Jan De Koster's head.
She is a vile, poisonous, evil, nasty, no-good, sorry excuse for a human being. No. For a mammal. She is a sorry excuse for a mammal. Whales are embarrassed to claim her in the same class. Wait. That's being a little generous. Whales are sensitive, kind creatures. Coyotes. She embarrasses Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-1306645705969308932010-05-12T06:18:00.007-05:002010-05-12T17:38:48.499-05:00Stock GirlWhen Bakker Bros. Sporting Goods opened in the 1980s, it prided itself on having the best shoe selection in three counties. That was true, but it was also the only shoe store in three counties, if you didn't count Pamida, which no one did. But it's hard to keep a little business solvent on athletic shoes alone, so my dad and uncles diversified. Basically they stocked the store with the gadgets Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-73943854151952935392010-05-11T07:00:00.000-05:002010-05-11T07:46:37.270-05:00Life, As I Know ItI got up early this morning to go running. I was feeling pretty impressed with my bad self until three people stopped to ask if I was hurt and/or needed a ride.
I suspect this doesn't happen to gazelle-looking runner sorts, but as I knew all three, and can confirm they are all pushing 80, I didn't think too much of it. However, by the time I showed up for my second day at the new job -- or my Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-22816334856352993662010-05-10T10:00:00.000-05:002010-05-10T10:52:53.992-05:00I Don't Do DoiliesHere's a piece of advice: If you want to make a dramatic entrance, have the foresight to check if somebody will be home.
You can throw open the door and shout "Surprise!" to a nearly empty kitchen if you want, but don't expect the parakeet to be all that impressed. Especially if said bird has always copped an attitude with you.
I figured Mom and Dad were just out to supper or something, so I Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-14356063628306956322010-05-07T08:00:00.000-05:002010-05-07T08:00:06.172-05:00The RideJack was waiting for me as I exited the Omaha airport. Impulsively, I had called him to see if he was available to serve as my chauffeur once again. I had nearly hung up after I'd dialed his number, but he would have known it was me, and then there could have been that awkward phone call back where he'd be wondering why I'd called and I'd have to explain that, well, I was calling to have him comeAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-54788945632140526522010-05-05T08:00:00.000-05:002010-05-05T08:00:11.977-05:00Standing StillI spent all last night going over and over in my head the options I had, which were few.1. I could stay in Florida and never deal with winter again, except for Christmases back home. That would require working for Mr. Price on commission in clearly higher-end suits than I have. But lots of people work on commission and make great money. And it’s not like I wouldn’t know how to navigate the Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-49321081465327508412010-05-04T08:00:00.001-05:002010-05-04T09:18:17.920-05:00Sweat EquityIt was 90 degrees when I got out of the airport in Orlando. And since I was used to 70 degrees being relatively balmy in the Midwest during springtime, I immediately started sweating buckets, so I was thankful I'd thought to wear a suit with a jacket that could cover up the indignity of the dark crescents under my arms. The humidity had not yet reached wet-blanket levels, so I was good to go as Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-18662515109803833862010-05-03T08:00:00.000-05:002010-05-03T08:00:09.873-05:00The Friendly SkiesMy mother is not speaking to me.And it’s not because I told her she had to grow up and get over whatever beef she had, real or imaginary, with her mother because enough is enough, you know, and Grandpa’s gone and you have your one parent left and you need to stop being ridiculous because if you spend the rest of your life being resentful or ashamed or trying to make up for whatever it is you Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-53528347607092060872010-04-29T07:49:00.029-05:002010-04-29T08:12:44.396-05:00InterventionsYou know that show Intervention? Sarah loves it.
And she thought we should stage one -- a small one -- with Mom.
For the record, I was against it. I'm smart enough to know it's best not to go around poking bears. You know. Most of the time.
When we got to the house, Mom was out in the back cutting rhubarb. Sarah set the boys free in the yard and went out to get her while I put some water on Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-47156462040505390232010-04-28T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-28T08:54:54.419-05:00Turning Rumor into FactBy the time I got back to church, rumor had it that, overwrought with grief, I'd fainted. That Jack Seward had caught me before I hit the ground. And that Jack Seward was a hero, again.
By that point, the story was too far gone to set straight, so I didn't try. And Jack Seward didn't try. And Sandra Walner herded me into a folding chair in the fellowship hall and hovered at my shoulder while I Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-6237763687826152342010-04-27T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-27T08:04:01.665-05:00Finale (for now)I've been thinking for some time how to say this, and I still don't have it exactly right. So bear with me. The thing about my grandpa is that he looked for the best in people, and believed in it, without making them bear the weight of that expectation.
That's what I tried to say at the funeral, though I was less tired and a little more coherent at that point. So maybe it came out a little Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-59977600623754833682010-04-26T07:00:00.001-05:002010-04-26T07:43:38.329-05:00Green JelloWhen someone's lived to the ripe old age of 86 and had a full, rich life, his passing isn't a tragedy, at least not in the usual sense.
But no one, not one single person said as much. Instead, they came to the house armed with funeral food, which is the same as barn-raising food: Green jello with fruit cocktail and marshmallows. Strawberry jello with bananas and marshmallows. Vanilla pudding Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-46358509769363519342010-04-23T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-23T07:00:02.312-05:00The CanoeDeath is less dramatic than one would expect.I suppose accidents and murders contain a fair amount of drama, but most deaths, particularly of illness or old age come and go, almost before you know it. It’s less wailing and gnashing of teeth and much more the quiet turn of a page, the gentle drift of a canoe out to sea.I had gone home from the hospital late in the evening with Dad, who decided to Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-37335303897056044792010-04-22T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-22T07:00:01.950-05:00GirlsMy grandpa’s dying.Sarah called me and told me to come home. Now. So I hopped on the late flight out of Midway last night. She said someone would be there to pick me up at the airport. I told her I could rent a car if I needed to, but Sarah said I shouldn’t drive. I thought she was probably right.That someone turned out to be Jack Seward, who looked grave and concerned and proceeded to apologize Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-18832683726475552732010-04-21T07:00:00.001-05:002010-04-21T07:55:17.645-05:00The OnePreston decided to break our bout of silence and unspoken awkwardness by inviting me out for a glass of wine. At the Tasting Room. Which just happens to be "our" place, if people who are just friends have a "place" that's "theirs" in a non-romantic sort of way. What I mean is, I introduced it to Preston and whenever we need a place to unwind and shoot the shit -- a place that wasn't covered in Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-11072065601413914692010-04-20T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-20T07:00:03.543-05:00When It RainsSo, I’ve gone – what – two months without a job now, and in one day I get two bites. Isn’t it always like that? Feast or famine. Deluge or drought. Shitstorm or calm before the shitstorm. Never fails.Call No. 1 came right after I’d gotten out of the shower. It was Uncle Dan.Dan: Wrennie. Whatcha doing?I pulled my towel more tightly around my body, still wet from the shower. I certainly wasn’t Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-44182055662172998612010-04-19T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-19T07:00:10.433-05:00Moving OnEver since Preston’s and my Whiskey West come-to-Jesus talk, most of what had been floating around in my head consisted of three letters.They were W, T, and F.I was a ball-buster with tunnel vision and impossibly high standards. And this from my best friend. Shit, what did that say for what everyone else must be thinking of me? And every time I thought about what I’d said about his parents’ Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-47378452931541599192010-04-16T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-16T07:51:56.450-05:00Scent Information, or Why Dogs Like ButtsSarah: Larry has a thing for my underwear.
Me: I do hope we're talking about the dog.
Sarah. Oh. We are. He's gone through 17 pairs since you've been gone.
Me: Umm. Well. That's disgusting.
Sarah: I know! And that's not the worst of it.
Me: He likes poopy diapers, too?
Sarah: In some ways that would be worse. But no.
Larry, it seems, likes Sarah's underwear so much that he'll Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-63987377226193508182010-04-15T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-15T08:03:12.625-05:00Round TwoI tracked Preston down, and he agreed to meet me for a beer. But only if I promised to shut up until he told me I could talk.
I told him I'd try, and he told me he was absolutely 100 percent not kidding.
Apparently he wasn't ready to make nice.
I got to the Whiskey West early and ordered some chicken wings and hoped they'd suffice as some sort of goodwill gesture. Preston didn't even look Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-23416393570497656792010-04-14T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-14T08:15:12.256-05:00I'm Still a Rock StarI managed to track down Preston and obtain the all-clear to return to the den/office/corner currently serving as my home. After nearly two weeks away, four things were immediately clear.
1. I cannot continue to live in a den/office/corner. It's ridiculous. And it's cramping my style.
2. It's also cramping Preston's style. Besides the entertaining logistics previously discussed, the dining Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-73080570929819421122010-04-13T07:00:00.000-05:002010-04-13T08:20:20.515-05:00Straight TalkIf subtlety is a strength, it's certainly not one of Ana's. It's one of the reasons we're such good friends.
If she's mad, she tells you. If you look ugly, she tells you. If she thinks the guy you're dating needs to throw out his organic deodorant, she tells you. If you maybe once barked in your sleep, she tells you. And then she tells everyone else. Naturally.
The other thing about Ana is Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-80109435753681625662010-04-12T07:00:00.001-05:002010-04-12T08:36:14.053-05:00SkinIn the fall of my senior year Elena Vanderhoff kissed Eric Westerhoff, the long-time boyfriend of Andi De Haan, at a kegger the next town over. All belonged to the upper echelons of our small town high school society, and the fallout was epic.
Elena and Andi stopped speaking to each other, obviously. And, eventually, to Eric, but only after he started dating a freshman from another school. Cars Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-86937286244796155682010-04-09T13:05:00.001-05:002010-04-11T21:18:32.049-05:00GiftsPreston called me last night to find out when I was coming home. Even though I'd told him no less than three separate times and asked him to pick me up at Midway Friday evening. Clearly, his mind was elsewhere.Me: Preston, I'm flying in tonight, remember? You said you'd pick me up.Preston: Oh yeah. Hm. Well, that shouldn't be a problem. And you plan to come back to my place?Me: Nah. I thought I'dAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-38534920534508914432010-04-08T09:00:00.001-05:002010-04-08T09:00:05.968-05:00The Catch-upSo, I met Jack Seward for coffee.It was fine. Lots of small talk – what he’s been up to, what I’ve been up to (minus the whole unemployment aspect), and what brought him back to the area. His father, a state trooper, died of a heart attack when Jack was a sophomore in high school. I was in sixth grade. Marty Seward had been working the 11-7 shift and never came home. The next morning, the county Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-78439243954671708522010-04-07T10:36:00.000-05:002010-04-07T10:36:46.120-05:00The OwletsThe owlets have all arrived. My dad made sure to update me, and then we sat and watched the livestream of the mama and Max, Pattison, Austin and Wesley (oh yes, they have been named) for an unnecessarily long period of time. Just because we could. I may or may not have been more intrigued than my dad. Mostly from the comments.
http://www.ustream.tv/theowlboxAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-55150039685091365402010-04-06T09:00:00.001-05:002010-04-06T09:00:02.113-05:00PilotMy mother woke me up this morning at 7 am to tell me two things. One, Grandpa wanted me to come over for a visit today, and two, Jack Seward had called the house last night while I was at Sarah’s and wanted me to call him back.I felt like I was in high school all over again. Only this time, I was way cooler.Mom: So. Are you going to call him?I managed to play coy as I wiped the sleep from my eyesAmanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-40998889655053813362010-04-05T09:00:00.001-05:002010-04-05T09:00:06.452-05:00Making ScenesI went grocery shopping with my mother over the weekend, and let me tell you something: if you have no desire to see people you haven’t thought about in 10 years and engage in small talk about your life over the last decade, don’t go to a grocery store in your small hometown on a Saturday afternoon.
Just don’t do it.
It’s like a comedy of errors.
Scene 1: The produce section, right by the Amanda at the red tablehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18187395998853313283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-789200471839921304.post-4138125222988074332010-04-01T07:00:00.004-05:002010-04-01T10:26:05.797-05:00ParkingLarry and I took the boys to the park yesterday afternoon so that Sarah could take a nap.Abe, as I mentioned, is two-and-a-half; Ike is quite the pragmatic four. Larry is six months and has a hard time focusing.Our plan was to teach Larry to fetch, which he did (kind of) with great enthusiasm approximately twice before losing interesting, which was fine because that's about when Ike and Abe lost Susannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17163731198054155595noreply@blogger.com0