Funny Girls

Here we are in California in 1983. This is one of just a handful of pictures of just the two of us. Mom loved Babs and had a bunch of her records. I did a lot of dancing to A Star is Born in our living room - actually, it was probably more like excited flailing.

Penis Cake

One summer when I was home from college, I stumbled into the kitchen around the crack of noon and I found my Mom making a penis cake. That's right: a cake shaped like a penis.

My sister, Heather, was attending a bachelorette party, and her job was to bring the penis cake. Who does she go to for help? Mom. If you had a crazy and zany task and don't know what to do, Mom was your go-to gal.

So, if you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to bring a penis cake to a party, here's Mom's tried and true recipe:

Step 1: Gather your ingredients. Cake mix - white or chocolate (personal preference, I guess - HEY-O!), frosting, red food coloring, and some coconut snowballs. Yes, that's right.




Step 2: Bake your cake according to the directions. Let it cool. And then you need to draw out your penis shape on the cake. Ask a guy-friend for help. They'll love to offer up some advice.




Step 3: Cut sections of cake around your penis cake and carefully remove them. Sample the cake to make sure it tastes ok.




Step 4: Remove the penis from the cake pan and put it on a foil-covered cutting board. Then, you can give the penis a little rest while you work on the balls.




Step 5: This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy (or hairy). I thought that Mom put the coconut balls in the oven on broil to "toast" the coconut shaving to make them look more like hair. My results looked less like hair, and more like some horrible ball-disease. Yikes!




Step 6: So, you can totally skip the ball broiling, I think. Next move onto the frosting. Add just a small amount of red food coloring to give your frosting that flesh tone. Adjust your colors to your personal preference.




Step 7: Frost your penis. Place your balls on top.




And there you have it. A cake shaped like a penis. Mom taught me so many great things.

43 Years

Today is my parent's anniversary. They have been married for 43 years.



Here they are outside my Grandma's house in Ely. The boots, hat and cane were likely props from my Uncle - perhaps from his stint in Russia?

This is my favorite picture of my parents. It's actually hanging in my hallway. They just look so young, happy and giddy with love. Don't they look like the kind of couple you'd want to party with? I think so.

I've really been trying to think about their 43 years together - especially the past 10 years. Because it was about 10 years ago that we started noticing a change in Mom. For a long time, it was really hard to accept what was happening to her. But now - there's no denying that the Alzheimer's has totally taken over. There's really nothing left of Mom. Words don't make much sense either to her or from her. Moving around is tough because her balance and motor control is not good. She sleeps a lot - she needs help with eating, getting dressed, and going to the bathroom. Dad has to help her with everything.

If there is a silver lining to this awful experience, it has been seeing the depth of the love that my Dad has for my Mom. It blows me away, actually. He's incredibly patient, kind and sweet to her. He sings songs to her. He cares for her in a way that I never knew he had in him. We've all been so focused on what's happening to Mom, that sometimes I forget to think about Dad. The way I see it right now: he's the unsung hero of this love story.

So, here's to 43 years of marriage.
For better or for worse.
In sickness and in health.
And you know the rest...

Hey, you! I know you! I know you!

Whenever I get in a pool and pretend to do synchronized swimming, this is what it looks like:

Cleanliness

I have this image on my fridge:




It helps me with the guilt I have about my dirty floors, sticky counters and all the Cheerios in my couch.

And then not that long ago, I remembered my Mom had a plaque hanging in her kitchen that said this:



Except hers was a wooden plaque with hand painted orange letters and yellow daisies. I love how her wooden plaque had a lasting impression on me.

I guess I have my Mom to blame for the Cheerios in my couch.

I Love a Parade

The cute one looking right at the camera with the fantastic brunette bee-hive...that's my Mama.

Mom really knew how to work a parade float.

Last Supper

A few weeks ago, Jason and I were talking about our last meals. If we were going to be executed, what would we pick as our last meal? A nice, light evening discussion topic.

It didn't take me long to decide: A giant bowl of rigatoni noodles swimming in butter. And I'm totally serious about the butter - the noodles should be floating on top of a pool of sweet, golden goodness.

Mom used to make this for me as a kid. She really didn't cook much, but she used to make me "fat" noodles whenever I requested them. And she never did skimp on the butter (she didn't really skimp on anything) but, the woman could have used an ice cream scoop. I have these warm and fuzzy memories of sitting on the bar stool up at the bright orange kitchen counter top, listening to Juice Newton on the radio, sipping milk from the yellow Tupperware cup, slurping buttery fat noodles from a bowl, and being with my Mom.

It seems like just the right emotional place to be just before a nice long dirt nap, don't you think?

And Jason's last meal?

"The liver of my enemy."

Happy New Year!

Yikes! It's been nearly a year since I've added a post! One of my new year's resolutions: To write more about my Mama. I've had stories floating around in my head all year, but haven't taken the time to type them out.

I'm gonna blame this guy:



Mom would've loved this little dude. Every stubborn and hilarious inch.

Drake is what you would call an "active" child. And has moved into a new stage of general destruction around the house. Which got me to thinking about what things I destroyed as kid...

An oven. I destroyed an oven.

And I wasn't even a kid. I was in my early 20s.

When I was in college, I had an internship at the Minnesota Children's Museum. Part of my internship was to help create and execute an art activity for kids. The theme was: Crazy Crayons! And in my research on activities with crayons, I stumbled upon instructions on how to make your own crayons by breaking up old crayons into muffin tins and melting them together in the oven. My first batch? Brilliant! The different colors of wax swirled together in a cookie-shaped crayon of crazy! Success!

It was the second batch - I couldn't leave well-enough alone. I wanted to break new ground in crazy crayon-making...what other shapes could be made? I dug around in my parents kitchen drawer and found a gingerbread man cookie cutter. Fun! A man shaped crayon!

So, I carefully wrapped the bottom of the cookie cutter in tinfoil and filled it with broken crayon bits and threw it in the oven for the few minutes of melting. It wasn't long before smoke started billowing out of the oven, and when I opened it, I could see that the crayon wax had seeped through the tinfoil, dripped onto the cookie sheet, and then onto the bottom of the oven. My Mom's oven had a large puddle of crayon wax in it. Crap!!! Was every Thanksgiving turkey from now on going to have the taste of Burnt Sienna or Cadet Blue?

And just as I was having a minor freak-out moment, Mom walked in to see what all the fuss was about...

Me: "Um, Mom - I think I may have ruined your oven."

Mom: "Eh - I don't care. I don't cook much anyway, and I've always hated that oven."