P.S.

I had to throw out roughly two pounds of candy today: The stuff still left in their Halloween buckets from last year!

Halloween!

Boy, am I wiped. No witticisms or interesting anecdotes tonight -- just pictures! The pictures of Bergen with a gaggle of princesses are from his costume parade at school this afternoon. (I got to stay and help with his class party; good fun!) The outside one is from trick-or-treating. We went with the whole neighborhood after having a potluck dinner at our house. The kids got more than 100 pieces of candy each. That's obviously too much. Will have to help them weed out their piles.... :)

Fun night. Fun, exhausting night. Smooches, Jen

P.S. Bergen is Jango Fett, a Star Wars character, and Christian is a Dementor from Harry Potter.

The Fink's Halloween Party

Jen and I had a blast as we went to the annual Lisa and Mike Fink Halloween Party this Saturday. Jen and I came home late and fell asleep on the couch together with every light on in the house. The highlight was a Jell-O shot-filled game of Bunco (dice game). I still have a sore throat from laughing so hard and trying to talk over the crowd. I am afraid that I am not a young buck anymore as I felt like taking a nap all day today.

I am sure Jen will have comments to add when she has the chance. Oh, by the way, costumes were required at this party. I came dressed as the host, Mike Fink -- a big hunter and good friend. Jen came as a turkey (a costume of a turkey - I had to clarify).

Later
Jay

Sunday's Spirit Run...

...was great.

It's a tough 5K -- with the last quarter-mile or so uphill, including a BIG uphill for final stretch. But I did it! And then my friends and I went out for a not-at-all healthy breakfast afterwards. :), Jen

5K Tomorrow

I'm running a 5K tomorrow morning with the River Court Running Club (aka my neighbors) -- and realized today that I haven't been out for a run in about two weeks.

This could hurt...

I'll let you know how it goes! :), Jen

Waiting for Nov. 4

Larry David wrote this for the Huffington Post this week. I am so there. -- Jen

* * *

Waiting for Nov. 4
by Larry David

I can't take much more of this. Two weeks to go, and I'm at the end of my rope. I can't work. I can eat, but mostly standing up. I'm anxious all the time and taking it out on my ex-wife, which, ironically, I'm finding enjoyable. This is like waiting for the results of a biopsy. Actually, it's worse. Biopsies only take a few days, maybe a week at the most, and if the biopsy comes back positive, there's still a potential cure. With this, there's no cure. The result is final. Like death.

Five times a day I'll still say to someone, "I don't know what I'm going to do if McCain wins." Of course, the reality is I'm probably not going to do anything. What can I do? I'm not going to kill myself. If I didn't kill myself when I became impotent for two months in 1979, I'm certainly not going to do it if McCain and Palin are elected, even if it's by nefarious means. If Obama loses, it would be easier to live with it if it's due to racism rather than if it's stolen. If it's racism, I can say, "Okay, we lost, but at least it's a democracy. Sure, it's a democracy inhabited by a majority of disgusting, reprehensible turds, but at least it's a democracy." If he loses because it's stolen, that will be much worse. Call me crazy, but I'd rather live in a democratic racist country than a non-democratic non-racist one. (It's not exactly a Hobson's choice, but it's close, and I think Hobson would compliment me on how close I've actually come to giving him no choice. He'd love that!)

The one concession I've made to maintain some form of sanity is that I've taken to censoring my news, just like the old Soviet Union. The citizenry (me) only gets to read and listen to what I deem appropriate for its health and well-being. Sure, there are times when the system breaks down. Michele Bachmann got through my radar this week, right before bedtime. That's not supposed to happen. That was a lapse in security, and I've had to make some adjustments. The debates were particularly challenging for me to monitor. First I tried running in and out of the room so I would only hear my guy. This worked until I knocked over a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down or get out!" my host demanded. "Okay," I said, and took a seat, but I was more fidgety than a ten-year-old at temple. I just couldn't watch without saying anything, and my running commentary, which mostly consisted of "Shut up, you prick!" or "You're a fucking liar!!!" or "Go to hell, you cocksucker!" was way too distracting for the attendees, and finally I was asked to leave.

Assuming November 4th ever comes, my big decision won't be where I'll be watching the returns, but if I'll be watching. I believe I have big jinx potential and may have actually cost the Dems the last two elections. I know I've jinxed sporting events. When my teams are losing and I want them to make a comeback, all I have to do is leave the room. Works every time. So if I do watch, I'll do it alone. I can't subject other people to me in my current condition. I just don't like what I've turned into -- and frankly I wasn't that crazy about me even before the turn. This election is having the same effect on me as marijuana. All of my worst qualities have been exacerbated. I'm paranoid, obsessive, nervous, and totally mental. It's one long, intense, bad trip. I need to come down. Soon.

Original post at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/larry-david/waiting-for-nov-4th_b_137029.html

Jen's Column / Up North

I'm starting this column from a gas pump in Motley. I've just wrestled my laptop from the bag wedged at my feet while my husband's inside buying a cup of coffee. I'm not even sure the kids know we've stopped; they're watching Pirates of the Caribbean on the DVD player strapped to the back of my seat.

We're on our way home from our annual "MEA weekend" trip to the cabin — the trip where we close everything up and let the mice take over for the winter. (This is one of those times when I use the word "we" liberally. While Jay did stuff with fuses and oil pans and compressors, I swept the floor and folded blankets.)

We've been on the road for what feels like three days. (That stop at Larry's Pizza in Wadena lasted a lot longer than it was supposed to.) It's 2:58 p.m. and we still have 215 miles to go.

Still, I have to write fast because I'm scheduled to fall asleep in about 30 minutes. My plan is to get through St. Cloud — and maybe even make it to Minneapolis — before waking up. I get such a thrill opening my eyes after a good nap and deciphering where we are.

"Wow! Look how far we've gotten!" I'll say. "This trip isn't taking long at all!"

And Jay, who will by then be on his third cup of gas station coffee, will deadpan, "Yah, it just breezes by."

Our cabin is a "cabin cabin" — the kind Laura Ingalls might've lived in. Not that other kind of cabin — the kind people call a "cabin" but is actually a great deal nicer than any house I will ever live in. Located in the woods near Itasca State Park, our cabin can only be described as rustic. We're talking an outhouse, a woodstove, and furniture straight out of the 70s.

Because it sits roughly between my and Jay's hometowns, it's become a gathering place for our families. Which is really the whole point. It's where nine little cousins drive Grandpa's go-cart and turn fallen trees into jungle gyms. Where the crock-pot is always filled with a concoction that includes sour cream, barbecue sauce or exorbitant amounts of cheese. Where there's no Internet access, no telephone, no cable TV.

The best part for me is feeling like a part of our greater family. The cabin is where I play spoons with my nieces and Smear with my parents. Where we sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows at 10 in the morning. Where my three-year-old nephew, who sees me infrequently enough to feel shy at his arrival, will spend the rest of the weekend holding my hand and teasingly calling me "mom."

Weekends at the cabin are so simple and calm and slow that Jay and I play the "What if…." game from the moment we arrive

"What if we moved here….?" I say.

"What if I opened a bait shop…?" Jay says.

"What if I ran a little coffee shop and made homemade cookies…?" I add.

But, now, at 3:24 p.m., as we travel south on Highway 10 on that familiar Sunday-afternoon trek back to our real lives, our "What ifs…" change flavor.

"What if we have our neighbors over for a potluck on Halloween?" I say.

"What if we put a shed next to the garden next summer?" Jay says.

"What if the cat is so angry that we've been gone that she vomited on our bed?" I add.

I frequently whine about how far we live from family — about the hundreds of miles to our little "up north". But the drive is actually a blessing. By the time we've returned to Rochester, the shift is complete. We're mentally, as well as physically, home.

And tomorrow morning — when I wake up on a mattress that doesn't hide a sinkhole in the center and sit on a couch that doesn't double as rodent hotel? I'll be even happier.

Hibernation

The cabin is cozily closed up for the winter. Which sounds lonely, until you know that we're heading up there in just a few weeks for my birthday. We'll just have to do without running water that weekend. (Hello outhouse!)

We had a great weekend. Amy and her kiddos came out, as did my mom and dad. Lots of four-wheeling and go-carting and campfiring. Good times. :), Jen

Today's column...

...was written at the last minute, and you can tell. So I'm not posting it. (Oh, I love the power!)

In the meantime, I invite you to join Facebook (if you haven't already), look me up and start a game of Facebook Scrabble with me. It's so fun! And it's wonderful for putting off real work... like writing my column. :), Jen

Should I panic?

I have no idea what I'm writing about for Wednesday. Due tomorrow...

Jen's Column / Trucker Talk

I have absolutely no idea what I'm writing about for next week... but I can give you last week's column! Here it is...

* * *

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the world would be a heckuva lot more fun if we all had CB radios in our cars. Because, really. What's more entertaining than trucker lingo? Nothing, that's what.

Before school yesterday, my boys came across their walkie talkies — plastic, red-and-yellow models they've had since their preschool days. They spent the walk to the school bus two house-lengths from each other — chatting the whole way.

"I'm coming up behind you!" my nine-year-old announced, the walkie held parallel to the tilt of his head. "Keep it moving, keep it moving…. "

My six-year-old's conversation was a little less conventional. "Butt!" he hollered into the mouthpiece, cracking himself up. "Butt!"

"That is not how you use a walkie-talkie," I reprimanded. Obviously I had neglected to teach my children the nuances of conversing over a radio. I confiscated my six-year-old's walkie and took over.

"This is Big Mama," I announced, using my best trucker voice. "Do you read?"
(That would be my handle, by the way. Big mama. I've been using it in imaginary trucker conversations for decades — long before I became any kind of mama, big or not.)

"Hi Mom," said my nine-year-old. "Breaker, breaker."

"That's a big ten-four, Little Critter," I answered. "We got a bear in the air and a smokey in a plain blue wrapper, so you're gonna want to back it down. Big mama, over and out."

My son's voice came back through the plastic handset — though we didn't really need it anymore since we'd reached the bus stop and he was standing right behind me. "Mom?" he said. "I'm going to turn this off now."

In retrospect, I might've been making too much of a scene in front of his friends.
I've been there before. A few years ago, we were driving behind my parents' truck on the way to the Cities. My dad had brought walkie talkies along in case we lost each other. I was in heaven.

"Breaker, breaker, good buddy," I announced to the red Ford ahead of us as we rolled onto Highway 52. "This is Big Mama. We got our pedal to the metal and we're letting it roll."

My husband groaned.

"What?" I asked.

"That's just embarrassing," he answered, grimacing.

In my defense, you should know that Jay actually embarrasses easily. He also gets uncomfortable when I rap to my kids ("I'm a big bad mama and I'm here to say, we're going to do things my way…") or when I put my foot in my mouth in public. This happens a lot.

So I ignored him and continued. "Got your ears on, Poppo?" I spoke into the walkie. "We're gonna have to stop for some go-go juice before too long. Get some mud while we're at it. We'll catch that chicken coop on the flip-side. You copy?"

(I actually don't know what "chicken coop" is supposed to mean — but I heard Ponch say it on CHiPs once, so it must be cool.)

Jay may claim not to use trucker talk, but I've caught him singing that Jerry Reed song from Smokey and the Bandit on more than one occasion: "We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there…."

And that counts. But it's not as fun as pulling out the lingo. I guarantee it. This is Big Mama, over and out.

Jen's Column / Mamma Mia

"Hello ladies," the e-mail from my friend Jen began. "I'm planning a Mamma Mia sing-along movie night."

When: Thursday, Sept. 25th
Time: 9:50 pm
Where: Chateau Theatres

Amy had the great idea to wear jammies to the movies. No one will see us because normal Rochesterans are in bed by 10 p.m. I know it's late but you can sleep when you die. See you Thursday.

"How fun is that?!" I wrote back. And then I called my friend Lisa. Lisa who has seen Mamma Mia — the movie musical based on ABBA's music — three times. Lisa who saw it live in Las Vegas and danced in the aisles. Lisa who knows all the words to every ABBA song ever written.

"Want to go to the Mamma Mia sing-a-long on Thursday with a bunch of other fun women?" I asked. "We're wearing our pajamas!"

She wasn't as enthusiastic as I was about this last detail.

"Is everyone else wearing them?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered confidently.

"Really?" she questioned.

"Yes," I assured her. "Everyone is wearing pajamas."

It probably goes without saying that no one else was wearing pajamas. When we showed up on Thursday night — me in my red flannel Scottie dog pajamas (a Christmas gift from my mother-in-law) and Lisa in her blue cotton capris with matching top — we were the only two of more than a dozen women in our pajamas.

And Amy — the one with the "great idea" to wear jammies? Didn't even show up.
You know what else? All Rochesterites AREN'T in bed by 10 p.m. There were other people at the theater. And plenty of them.

But it was Mamma Mia, so what can you do? Sit back and relax and sing along.

This, of course, is the beauty of sing-a-long night. You actually get to belt out the songs alongside Meryl Streep without annoying the people around you. Because, well, the people around you are singing, too. It doesn't matter if you've never even heard the songs before. The lyrics are running along the bottom of the screen, karaoke style, throughout the movie.

I hadn't seen Mamma Mia before, and I thought Meryl Streep sounded surprisingly good. Pierce Brosnan, on the other hand… Well, I'll say this about him: He's a handsome man almost along the same lines of Cary Grant — my end-all, be-all, unrequited movie star crush. But the man cannot sing. In fact, one reviewer wrote, "It is not merely that Pierce Brosnan cannot sing; it is that he looks so uncomfortable doing it."

True. Which may be why the whole lot of us broke into giggles every time Brosnan opened his mouth. But we also applauded him for his courage to be out there singing anyway.

We sang anyway, too. Especially when Dancing Queen came on. Because, really, what woman doesn't love Dancing Queen? ("You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life! O—o-ooh, see that girl! Watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen!")

So we sang. We waved our arms. We danced. In the aisles. It was so much fun I almost forgot I was out in public in my pajamas.