Jazzed!

As today has been proclaimed the inaugural International Jazz Day, it seems not only fitting but downright appropriate that all of us should take in an evening of live jazz. Which is much more appealing than dead jazz. At least I would assume so. But I digress. How fortunate for anyone in the Brookings area that the Pheasant regularly offers jazz and blues on Monday nights. Can it get better than this. Yes, indeedy. Tonight the most excellent Dakota Jazz Collective is playing! Girls night out. Adult beverages. Jazz. Who could ask for anything more? Okay, dessert is available, too. I should know better than to attempt to close with a question.

Are You Curly Tonight?

My hair just doesn't curl the way it used to. The last time this happened was twenty years ago, when I was in the latter stages of pregnancy. After Reid was born, the first time I washed my hair, voila, the curl was back. My completely non-scientific explanation for this is the fact that Reid has curly hair. So clearly, he was sucking all of the curliness factor out of my body during the third trimester. Not sure what is going on now, but I'm almost entirely certain that I'm not pregnant. The loss of curl has been gradual over the last few months, the last time it cooperated and curled nicely was last November. Perhaps the Hair Fairy finally heard my pleas and granted my straight hair wish. Something like 25 years ago when I first discovered anti-frizz gel, I accepted and embraced my curly locks. Mostly because I prefer a low maintenance hairstyle that doesn't require a lot of time every day. I'm trying to do the same with this new hairy development.  It seems I'm not the only one who is baffled by abrupt changes in hair behavior, real scientists are studying this phenomenon. For now, I'm in a somewhat awkward transitional stage that requires a little more time and effort than I'm accustomed to. I'm using a super-moisturizing curl relaxing shampoo and conditioner, also a couple of leave-in products. Totally organic and formaldehyde free. I also flat iron, but only a couple of times a week. We'll see what happens when the inevitable heat and humidity shows up this summer.

Five Year Old Car Blues

Five years ago today I bought the very first, and likely only, brand new car I shall ever own. Still love the Outback in Newport Blue Pearl and hope to put a million miles on her. She needs new tires, or as my Mom used to say, baby needs new shoes. Four of them. I bought something blue today as well, a very pretty bracelet made by a very artsy chick. My friend Linda is creating some appealing bling and selling it here. I recommend checking out her Etsy offerings. Do it! It's much cheaper than a new car and just as joyful.

Cat Trap

Here we see Einstein demonstrating the effectiveness of using a shopping bag as a cat trap. Boxes work well, too. My cats tend to prefer this World Market bag compared to the others. I don't know why. Yes, the obvious thing to remark would be the cat is in the bag. And as much as I seem to be obvious, even when I'm not trying, let's just steer clear of that one. Please. No bovine jokes.

Bonnie & Clyde

My older brother's first girlfriend was named Bonnie. My first boyfriend's middle name was Clyde. Bonnie and Clyde. I don't think either of them has died in a slo-mo rain of bullets. Though I know for certain Clyde committed more than his share of misdemeanors. Despite the fact that he had worked in law enforcement. The primary thing I remember about Bonnie is answering the front door of the pink stucco house on third avenue east to find her standing there. She asked if Scott was home. I said no. She then rooted about in her jacket pocket, located a nondescript silver ring, and handed it to me. Tell him I don't want to be his girlfriend any more, she said, and left. Some time after breaking up with Clyde, I moved to the only apartment complex in town that had a pool. It seems he had a friend who lived there as well, since on a half dozen or so occasions I saw him walking across the parking lot, towel in hand. One time I observed this from behind the wheel of my car and didn't act on the opportunity to run him over. Fortunately I was never using the pool when Clyde was there. Clyde's father, the original Clyde, once observed from behind his newspaper that he had never taught his wife how to shoot a gun. Clyde never took me target shooting again. Perhaps he saw the future and knew he would piss me off. I expect I was his last girlfriend/shooting pupil. I expect I most definitely was not the last woman he pissed off.

Summer of '31

I spend too much time on Facebook. Occasionally, though, I run across something that is interesting. There is a page devoted to the history of the small town in North Dakota where my mother grew up. Alamo. So I've been digging through photos looking for any that might add to this page. So far there is just this one. This is my maternal grandfather, Knut Oleson Ruud. He was a blacksmith. In other words, the village smithy. I don't know if there was a spreading chestnut tree outside this building, but I do know that my mother was absolutely mortified when she had to recite Longfellow's poem devoted to her father's trade. This was snapped sometime during the summer of 1931. I can't get over how young he looks! 

The Not Constant Gardener

South of the backyard fence there lies the remnants of a once fecund asparagus patch. It has been long neglected and become a derelict plot of noxious weeds and crabgrass. To the delight of my neighbors, I am in the process of cleaning up these areas of my yard. Asparagus is hardy even in the harshest of gardens, and miraculously, this one still bears fruit. Look upon my entire crop and tremble. I will steam this and enjoy it with butter and a squirt of lemon. I am, it seems, a true believer in moderation.