Note to self: Restock ‘blog ideas’ file

My “blog ideas” file isn’t helping me today.

It’s a tickler file of things to write about when nothing better happens in my day beyond vacuuming two flights of steps, washing the bed sheets and enjoying Chinese food for lunch (how’s that for scintillating?).

I mean, I made a whole blog post out of the dog’s bi-monthly visit to the groomer yesterday, but that’s a stretch two days in a row (I created that entire post, by the way, pictures and all, on my cell phone, which is a pretty cool statement about the ease of use of the WordPress app on iPhone).

Back to today’s topic at hand. Which, according to my “blog ideas” file, could be:

• Something pithy about résumés from my Daily Dictionary of Corporate Bullshit calendar. My résumé is not my friend right now.
• A humorous take on George Takei’s work with Social Security, except I already covered that ground back in November (read it here), and it was neither humorous nor space age.
• A rant beginning with “the problem with stupid people.” The four points I jotted down read like my 3 a.m. bedside notes on my bad dreams so I risk being the problem instead of solving it.
• A personal comparison to a stat I found in the Chicago Tribune back when I was subscribing to the paper version. Apparently, an average American woman owns 17 pairs of shoes, which seems woefully underestimated to me.
• Something sad about an errantly filed receipt for livingroom curtains. How many of my other files are hiding such ephemera?

So, I got nothin’ for ya today. Not even two cents on the Secret Service scandal, which holds no excitement for me, or the newly repaired generator on the 1983 Pace Arrow, about which my Beloved seems inordinately excited.

Since you’ve followed me through this pointless labyrinth, allow me to leave you with a blessing: Since inspiration is not with me, at least let there be peace with you.

My happy place

During my fifth year of college  … yeah, I attended one of those state schools that have a four-year graduation rate of a whopping 15 percent, so your point is?

Anyway, during my fifth year of college, I was editor in chief … yeah, that was the official title: Editor in chief. Sort of inflated, but I’ve always thought it was cool and important sounding. (One of my managing editors, by the way, was in his sixth or seventh year of college.)

Anyway, during my fifth year of college, I was editor in chief of the student newspaper. I was made for that job. If you can call it a “job.” I was paid a stipend of next to nothing. But I guess I was paid so it qualifies.

We published twice a week, and I remember many a Sunday and Wednesday nights when I would sit in front of a computer terminal to edit copy and puzzle together the edition’s design. To be clear, I didn’t do any of it by myself. The office was abuzz with people who designed ads, wrote headlines, developed photos and pasted together bits and pieces of news to make a newspaper.

On the way to our basement office, I would often stop at the deli and get a three-cheese bagel and a bag of Doritos to munch while editing. Despite my deplorable meal choices, I lost weight that year because I would forget to eat. I was engrossed in my work, and time meant nothing on those nights. We were there until the bitter end and we had the “we’ll sleep when we’re dead” attitude of a good group of 20somethings no matter how long it took so it didn’t really pay to watch the clock.

I was underpaid, and we worked hard, but I felt like I was doing valuable work. We were putting out the news. We were telling important stories.

This is how I judge a good day’s work, even today. Watching the clock or checking off an endless to-do list of meaningless tasks or sitting in tedious meetings or biting my lip during noisy conference calls is not important work. Telling important stories is valuable work and it is one of the reasons I love to write this blog.

Is my interview posted a couple of days ago with an 8-year-old who colors cats “important”?

Sure it is. It’s important to him. It’s important to me. It made some readers laugh. And it’s forever captured on the internet (which sounds eerily self-important like “editor in chief” but so be it). Roughly once a week, I nail it with a post like that. I capture someone’s interesting story.

And that’s valuable.

An interview with the artist

Cat in tree. By Logan R., age 8.

Minnesota Transplant: What color is this cat?

Logan: Calico.

Minnesota Transplant: Why calico?

Logan: I heard it from [big brother] Drew and now I know what it means — a bunch of different colors.

Minnesota Transplant: Why are the cat’s ears red?

Logan: Because that’s how cats’ ears look.

Minnesota Transplant: So you’re a dedicated realist?

Logan: What?

Minnesota Transplant: What’ s your favorite color?

Logan: Green.

Minnesota Transplant: Why?

Logan: Because more people like blue, and not as many people like green, and I like to be different. And green doesn’t represent anything bad.

Minnesota Transplant: What does black represent?

Logan: Guns.

Minnesota Transplant: So what does green represent?

Logan: Grass and trees and peaceful prairie.

Minnesota Transplant: So how many tools do you think you have to choose from?

Logan: Eighty-eight.

Minnesota Transplant: There are way more than 88 tools in your palette.

Logan: Two hundred then.

Minnesota Transplant: Describe them.

Logan: Markers, crayons, colored pencils, pastels, smelly markers.

Minnesota Transplant: What’s your favorite smelly marker?

Logan: Orange is my favorite.

Minnesota Transplant: Why did you have me smell the marshmallow one then?

Logan: Because that’s my least favorite.

Minnesota Transplant: What’s your favorite subject in school?

Logan: Math.

Minnesota Transplant: What’s your least favorite?

Logan: Music.

Minnesota Transplant: Why?

Logan: Because my music teacher is really grouchy.

[17-year-old cousin] Caswell: Like my dad?

Logan: No. Worse.

Minnesota Transplant: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Logan: A pilot.

Minnesota Transplant: What happened to mime? I thought you wanted to be a mime.

Logan: I can be both.

Minnesota Transplant [extending her hand]: Thank you for the interview.

Logan [walking away]: I don’t want to shake your hand!

Minnesota Transplant: So you’re a tortured artist?

Logan: What? You’re weird, Auntie.

And the envelope please …

The Academy Awards wouldn’t be the Academy Awards without sealed envelopes and the anticipation of opening them.

So it is with sealed envelopes around here. Second only to meals, mail time is the high point of our day.

“Have you gotten the mail yet?”

“Has the mail man come?” (I know he’s a man, so I’m not being politically incorrect.)

But like the Oscars where it’s an honor just to be nominated, here’s the deal: To get mail, you have to send it.

Lori over at “Keep writing…keep writing…” wrote a beautiful tribute to the handwritten note and issued a challenge to herself to write a letter once a week (click here for that post).

Just one letter. Once a week.

I’m in. I already write my 96-year-old grandmother, send birthday cards and Valentines, and express condolences and congratulations in writing so it’s not too much of stretch for me. Maybe you’ll try it, too?

It won’t be like you’ll hear “and the Oscar goes to” at the end of the year but you might be whistling while you walk from the mailbox.

What a difference 31 years makes

Valentine’s Day 1981

Dear Diary,

Yesterday after our basketball game (we lost; 54-3 — ugh!), I sat up in the bleachers and B. said, ” I really hate you — but I like your sister, Kay. She’s neat. Tell her hi from me and I’ll ask her if you did, and if you don’t, I’ll beat you up.” He said that with kinda a nice smile on his face. Then just a little while later, I was sitting on the bleachers with my knees on them and B. said, “Move your knees” and he sat down right beside me!!! Even Carrie noticed! Wow! And he knows I like him because I wrote a poem for English and Mr. O read it to the 7th hour class and T.J. found out about it and now everyone knows. Here’s the poem:

This Guy

The boy, his name is Anthony.
He’s got it all as you will see.
He’s bright, he’s tall, he runs real fast,
And in a race, he’s never last.

In basketball, he is the best.
He is so smart, he’ll ace a test.
But when he looks at me, I’m shy
And that is why I like this guy.

Whadya think? If I ever go with B., I’m gonna give this poem to him.

* * *

I laugh at my 14-year-old self on so many levels when I read this entry. First of all, I guess I had my priorities right on Valentine’s Day. I can’t imagine that 54-3 basketball game now, but I’m sure it was pure torture for my poor coach. All the attention it got from me was “ugh.” The rest of my entry was about the most important thing in my life: Boys! Or at least, one boy.

Are eighth grade boys still like that? Do they say, “I hate you” and “I’ll beat you up” when they like you? And can eighth grade girls see through it? From my limited experience with eighth graders in recent years, I’m thinking this is fourth grade behavior. Eighth graders are doing a lot more than sitting next to each other on the bleachers. Makes one yearn for the good ol’ days.

And I can’t believe my English teacher Mr. O really thought my poetry had any value beyond amusing himself as he outed me as lovestruck. He might have enjoyed the unfolding soap opera he unleashed by reading my work out loud, not to my class, but to a different one. If you’re teaching eighth grade English, that’s probably as good as it gets.

* * *

Valentine’s Day 2012

Minnesota Transplant blog

Well, I know for sure I’m part of an old married couple. We went out for dinner at a corner cafe (because we were avoiding the crowd at the local pub) and I ate my entire 10-ounce burger with bleu cheese, bacon and onions. I can’t believe I at the whole thing. A Valentine’s meal on a date with someone you’re trying to impress would never include onions or be completely eaten.

I got a portable FM radio for Valentine’s Day so I can listen to MPR while running. And I gave my Beloved a carrot cake muffin. And a Valentine that said, “Be my Valentine.”

Over dinner, we reminisced about the past five Valentine’s Days together, and I asked my Beloved what makes him happy when he thinks back about our relationship. And he said, “I’m happy that I’m happier every year.”

Now that’s progress. A lot better than being in eighth grade and being told, “I hate you.” That’s happily every after.

Writing thank-you notes has gotten a bad rap … here are some tips for writing good ones

If you have some people to thank after getting some extravagant gifts for Christmas, think of your gratitude as being among those gifts.

“Expressing gratitude is not an obligation,” says Margaret Shepherd in her book, “The Art of the Handwritten Note: A Guide to Reclaiming Civilized Communication.” “In fact, it is one of the most intense pleasures you can have.”

I wrote thank-you notes for Christmas tonight, and I do this for me as much as for the recipient. I get to savor the gifts I received and think good thoughts about the givers. Yes, it was part of my “to do” list today so I guess that makes it a chore, but I like putting pen to paper and saying thanks in a semi-creative way. And for me, there’s double value. Even though I insist the gifts be separate, as a Dec. 23 baby I can thank people for both birthday and Christmas gifts in the same note.

Shepherd says there are five characteristics for a good thank-you note:

1. Be generous. “Send a note even if you’ve already thanked the giver another way,” Shepherd says.
2. Be specific.
3. Be prompt. (I haven’t finished sending all my Christmas cards, but I’ve got those thank-you notes done!)
4. Be succinct. (See, you don’t have to write a book.)
5. Be personal.

Stuck with writer’s block? Try beginning one of these phrases from Shepherd:”I was so pleased to …,” “You were so nice to …,” “What a nice surprise …,” “That was a thoughtful gift …” and “It was a treat when we … .”

I’m always so pleased to know I have regular readers. You’re so kind to tune in and comment on occasion. Thanks for reading!

Autumn poetry

Thank you Mother Nature for all that you bring
by Drew, 12 

Thank you Mother Nature for the colorful leaves blowing in the wind,
the trees that dropped them down.
Thank you Mother Nature for the bright apples growing big and tasty
and for the corn yellow and large.
Thank you Mother Nature for sun that grew the pumpkins
so beautiful all around.
Thank you Mother Nature for the squirrels all around
collecting large brown acorns in the grass.
Thank you Mother Nature for all the little animals
running all around.

Climate change wipes out one of nature’s inhabitants (for a season anyway)

Grasshopper Gazette
Final Edition

SOUTH OF MINNEAPOLIS, Minn. — The suburban Minneapolis population of grasshoppers succumbed to icy cold temperatures this morning.

Over 95% of the population was wiped out. This reporter is among only a handful of survivors, and most expect to die tonight, when temperatures dip into the 30s for the second night in a row.

“It’s a massacre,” said One-Eyed Green, who watched dozens of members of his family slow down and then stop. Forever.

This climate change is unlike any seen by any grasshopper living in Minnesota. Temperatures this cold have never been recorded, though archeologists believe suburban Minnesota may have been as cold as 30 below zero eight months ago.

It was only Tuesday when thousands of grasshoppers were living a merry life in this field of yellow grass. Grasshoppers were hopping grass right and left. An enormous dog estimated to weigh at least 8 pounds pounced into the glen attempting to pin down a grasshopper, but it was unsuccessful and eventually departed.

“It was 60 degrees that day,” Green said. “Evading that perky dog was child’s play. Who knew the end of the world would come the next day?”

Basking in my 15 minutes of fame

Exciting week around Minnesota Transplant’s house. I was Freshly Pressed! Which means next to nothing unless you’re a WordPress blogger obsessed with stats. Guilty as charged. Forgive me a bit of navel gazing.

Hey, when you’re funemployed, you get your kicks where you can.

“Funemployed” — I stole that from fellow Freshly Pressed WordPress blogger, Liz Purdy. Thanks, Liz. And thanks to the folks at WordPress who recognized her greatness and brought her to my attention. In fact, Freshly Pressed has brought a number of interesting bloggers to my attention, including:

• Another Stir of the Spoon: Food, art, books, birds and whatever
• Yes, I Said Minnesota: California kids take on Minnesota

Even if you’re not a blogger, you can find Freshly Pressed at www.wordpress.com and discover new interesting reading.

Being featured on WordPress’s homepage for 24 hours brought nearly 1,100 new readers to Minnesota Transplant and another 20 or so to my aspiring writer blog. And thanks to the stellar communication system in WordPress, I now have a bunch of new blogs to check out because when a fellow WordPress blogger likes a post or comments, I get an email with the blogger’s web address.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to comment and subscribe, during the past week or at any other time. As someone who kept a diary for five years in high school, I would probably write this blog anyway but it’s way more fun to interact with readers. Here’s to you!

Boyfriend wasn’t impressed with my smackdown, er, meltdown

As part of the Post a Day challenge this year, this blog’s host WordPress offers post prompts every day. Today’s post prompt is “Would you ever throw food at someone?”

I immediately thought of the boyfriend I took from high school to college (there was a canned food fracas with my ex-husband, too, and I think my Beloved once threw a flying pan in my general direction, but it was my high school boyfriend I thought of when I thought of throwing food). I wrote about why I loved him in a post a couple of weeks ago, but a food-throwing clash marked the ultimate demise of our relationship. That incident is included in the manuscript I am working on, and here’s an excerpt:

Some people break up after throwing dishes around in an alcohol-induced rage.

Me? My high school sweetheart broke up with me after I threw dishes around in a coffee-induced rage.

We had survived a year of separation when I went off to college while he finished off his senior year, and then we survived my confessions of straying with a college boy.

But when we were both attending the same university, our young love couldn’t survive spending long days and nights together, far from parental oversight.

While he relished in the attention of his dorm mates until all hours of the night, I actually went to bed at decent hours and got up the next morning to go to class. He was brilliant enough to be a National Merit Scholar Semifinalist so he could get away with that, for a while anyway. I, on the other hand, had to go to class and read the subject material in order to get A’s on my transcript.

One late spring day in 1987, while we were supposed to be enjoying each other’s company in the dorm cafeteria, I wanted to end supper with a nice cup of coffee. He was eager to leave, to be with those goddamned dorm friends of his.

I threw my tray of food around, and that was it. He left. And we were history.

Unfortunately, I had to spend the summer between my sophomore and junior years lifeguarding at the pool in the tiny town where he lived. I pretended to avoid him, hoping to find him around every corner.

He was more successful at avoiding me.

If you’re interested in other lip-smackin’ food-throwing smackdowns, check out The Daily Post by clicking on “post prompt” above or “I’m part of Post a Day 2011″ in the right-hand column.