I am SO part of the zeitgeist

As I have been sitting here watching the presidential debate, knitting a project for my next Prairie Girl's book, and talking politics and crafts with my craftanista friend Michaela, I remembered that I did an AP interview that was dropping today. Check it out: it's about crafting in this crap-ass economy.

I also wrote a post on CraftStylish about crafting and the economy, which delves into many of the same issues (can you tell it's all I'm thinking about?).

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the subject. How do you save money (if at all) through your hobby? How are you hunkering down in this economic climate?

I'm speechless

I did the Puyallup

I love fairs of all kinds but I particularly fancy the Puyallup Fair. I moseyed down there last night with my crafty friend Michaela of CraftStylish, her boyfriend Greg, and his daughter Elliott. As you can see, we did it up right, playing games, cruising through the Hobby Hall, going on rides (well, they went on rides while I played with the settings on my camera), and ate more than we should. Michaela, who has Coney Island as her frame of reference for carnivals and rides, was more than a bit blown away by the fair's cleanliness and courtesy. While I took photos of moving rides, she snapped shots of the Hand Wash Station and the clean eating area.

Regardless, we both brought home a bag of the fair's famous scones. I'm munching on one right now and to paraphrase Jean Girard from Talladega Nights, it tastes of America.

The fair runs through Sept. 21.

Scenes from Nebraska

Just a few pictures from my short and sweet trip to visit my brother John and his family in North Platte, Nebraska. Check out the handwritten ticket from the incredibly lame Great Lakes Airlines (I was stuck in Denver for 8 1/2 hours with this rinky-dink airlines on Monday). Classic.

Scenes from a blue-collar open house

A few photos from my mom's Christmas Even open house. Why write much when pictures say it all?

First up, a battered jar of whiskey cherries from 1990. Potent. Jim and I sampled a few vintages around 4pm. After a couple, I realized I was going to have to pace myself to make it to the end of the evening without passing out.

Then a photo of mom and me. This is what happens when you eat the whiskey cherries.

Terry brought about 10 pounds of venison stew in a Crockpot. He's on the left, my stepdad Jim is in the middle, and Toby is on the right, standing by the door to the back porch, where he planted himself for most of the evening. I visited with him every time I went to the pantry for another gin and tonic.

Then we've got the ladies: my stepaunt Pat, stepsister Denise, Legion friend Mary, stepniece Megan, and mom Judy. They are a fine-looking group of gals.

Legion post commander Pete stopped by with his daughter Crystal and her beau Nick, an aspiring writer.






"Jason, do you make Kelly walk behind you all the time?" I thought I was hilarious.

Kelly thought I was mildly amusing (check out her $9 Steve and Barrys sweatshirt! I am jealous!).

Mom and Mary are great friends. A handy seamstress (I am jealous of her too), Mary took home a nightshirt I bought at Old Navy and is going to transform it into a shirt for me.

And then there's mom and me. It was a great party, and we were a bit tired (i.e. corned) at this point. Merry Christmas to us.

Scenes from a blue-collar Friday night

A few photos from the Legion post 362. Pete Petric (the current commander) hosted a hot dog bar tonight. My stepdad Jim sprung for my mom and me: it cost the three of us $8 to eat five hot dogs, loaded up with chili, cheese, relish, onions, ketchup, mustard, olives, hot peppers, and more (not all on one dog, obviously). Life is good.

Pictures include photos of me and my mom, me and high school classmate Kelly Robinson, the bulletin board featuring my brother John (who's currently serving in Kuwait), and, my favorite, the signage in the right stall of the ladies' room: "If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat." Word.

Do the Puyallup

I headed down to the Puyallup Fair last night and had a blast. Was there any doubt? I sampled the fair's specialties: hamburgers with grilled onions (the stand I went to goes through 7 1/2 tons of beef and 10 tons of grilled onions during the fair) and scones with raspberry jam. I hit the livestock and craft barns, checking out handmade Kleenex boxes and intricate produce arrangements. I talked with a beekeeper and learned all about the benefits of raw honey. I was so busy having fun (and buying locally spun yarn) that I didn't even miss the nausea-inducing Zipper and Matterhorn rides.

But the most interesting thing was talking with people. From the beekeeper to a mom knitting a hat next to her daughter's sheep entry (a bit ironic, I think) to a belly dancer who knits, everyone was happy to chat. Everyone was nice. And when I left with my baker's dozen of scones, I wondered if I could somehow make it back before the Puyallup ends this weekend.

It's because of events like the Puyallup and the people who love it that I wrote The Prairie Girl's Guide to Life. You can have a small-town experience in the biggest of cities. You just need to slow your pace a bit.

"You can do it at a run, you can do it at a gallop, you can do it real slow, so your heart doesn't pal-pi-TATE, just don't be late, do the Puyallup."

The Puyallup Fair runs until September 23rd. Check out more of my fair photos.

Proud to Be an American

I think people generally regard me as funny, maybe obsessed with mindless pop culture, like Britney Spears’ meltdown or Katie Holmes’ new bob. But I also care about my family, and maybe my fascinations with the cult of celebrity and Project Runway are just coping mechanisms to more serious concerns about my loved ones.

My brother John has long been a member of the National Guard. Today he leaves for training and then he’ll be shipped off to the Middle East, where he could be stationed for up to 18 months. That’s a long time for anyone, especially a family man with three small children back home in Nebraska.

My family has a history with the military. Grandpa Worick met his much younger bride (my grandmother) while serving in World War I. My dad’s poor eyesight (which my brothers and I have all inherited) made him ineligible for the Armed Services.

But my brother Chris caught the bug early, building tank dioramas of Rommel (the Desert Fox) in the basement. He’d rappel off the side of the bruderhaus, a rundown shed behind my grandparent’s farmhouse. I joined him, scampering up the pussy willow tree and propelling myself off the side of the ramshackle building, secured by ropes.

Chris joined the Army immediately after graduating from high school and put in 20 years before retiring. He served in Operation Desert Storm and married Monika, who, like my grandfather, he met while stationed in Germany.

John joined the Navy as soon as he graduated. I don’t think he was enamoured of the life the way Chris was; rather, he saw it as an opportunity to get away from Michigan and move toward something else. He was mostly stationed out of Norfolk on an aircraft carrier and sent me gifts from all over the world.

Meanwhile, I was kicking around the idea of applying to a military academy but the physical fitness part sort of squelched that. Well, that and the idea of wearing a drab uniform and sensible shoes.

After he got out of the Navy, John remained active with the National Guard, largely for financial reasons. Working on the railroad all the livelong day doesn't pay all the bills.

My mom loves America too, doing her part by participating in her local American Legion and its women's auxiliary. She dons white gloves for parades, coordinates silent auctions, and decorates the foyer at the Post with seasonal displays and flags adorned with small yellow ribbons. I'm jaded but I can't laugh at it all. "Proud to Be an American" isn't just mom's favorite song; it's her way of life. When her father, my Grandpa Hamlin, passed away last December, he was honored with a military burial for his service in the National Guard back in the ’40s. I was completely taken off guard when I lost it during "Taps."

I love America, and I love my brother. I hope both are kept safe.

Meanwhile, I’ll go back to wondering which starlet is going to flash her bits and pieces next. My money’s on Mischa Barton.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks

I'm still recovering from eating my way through the Mariners' game last night. I managed to put down a pulled pork sandwich, two beers, some of Liz's garlic fries, a bite of Kate's Dippin' Dots, and a half a bag of Cracker Jack. The sad thing is that I was patting myself on the back—the part that I could still reach—for not eating a sundae or tucking into Kate's tray of nachos.

Take me out of my normal routine and I think I get a free pass on eating crappy food. Roadtrips usually mean rolling into a rest stop next to the turnpike and picking up an extra-value meal and a vat of Diet Coke. A business trip means I pack away frozen yogurt and, depending on the time, a bad stir fry or burrito in the terminal before rounding up a BLT and a candy bar or cookie for the flight itself. God forbid I feel a hunger pang at 30,000 feet.

But sporting events take the cake. Mmm, cake. When I was a kid, I played softball, but I also watched my brothers play Little League in back of Stump School or some other place around the area. I got bored quickly so I trolled the concession table, picking up Pixie Sticks and Pop Rocks, and washing it all down with a bottle of Orange Crush. I never felt good after eating all this stuff but I lost all self control when there was a box of Bubble Yum in sight. That hasn't changed; it's just that a piece of Bubble Yum would probably set me back $1.50 at Safeco Field.

By the way, the Mariners beat the Pirates 3-0, in case you were wondering.

Shoot the Freak

I recently visited my cousin Amy in Brooklyn and, along with her husband Paul, we trekked out to Coney Island for an afternoon. We did it up right—we rode the Cyclone and were bruised before we climbed out of the rickety car, we ate hot dogs at Nathan's (site of the annual hot dog-eating contest), we piled into a photo booth (you'll hear about my obsession with photo booths eventually). But the craziest thing we saw was a sideshow, tucked in a dilapidated alley between two boardwalk shows, called "Shoot the Freak." The banner below it? "Live Human Target." A barker heckled the crowd, cajoling them into paying up to $20 for 75 paintball pellets for a chance to shoot an air compression rifle at a guy down in the alley pit. The target wore a plastic codpiece and helmet, and carried a paint-splattered shield.

By the looks of that shield, they did brisk business.

When we walked by, a man and his son were tag-teaming the target. This is a far cry from the bearded ladies and the strong men of yore. While I watched the spectacle unfold on the boardwalk, some memory tugged at the corner of my mind. When I was a kid, I remembered reading a series of books about the All-of-a-Kind Family, a Jewish family living on the Lower East Side. The five sisters wore matching pinafores and helped out in their dad's rag shop occasionally. As a game, their mother would hide pennies all over the parlor and as the girls cleaned and dusted, they'd have to find all the pennies, ensuring a thorough cleaning. How genius is that? It's a industrious variation on an Easter egg hunt. But during one hot day, they escaped the city to wade in the water and take in the sights of Coney Island.

I don't think they watched a Japanese man eat 53 hot dogs in 12 minutes, or looked on as a boy shot a rifle at another human being. We've come a long way in some areas but as I watched the guy in the pit lackadaisically moving from side to side, I think about how far we still have to go. Don't get me wrong: I loved Coney Island. It is defiant in its traditions, even if you can smell the slow decay. I loved the gaudiness of it all. I dug the arcade games, the old Russian men in Speedos, the smell of the ocean mingling with grilling hot dogs. But what scares me is that there are far too many people plunking down cash to shoot at another human being without any sort of awareness. Rather, they are just trying to kill an afternoon.

Accent-uate the positive

My friends are circulating this great online test to figure out what kind of American accent you have. Check it out at http://www.youthink.com/quiz.asp?action=take&quiz_id=9827.

I was excited to take it, sure that it would not reveal my Michigan origins, but rather my culture, breeding, and education. Yeaaaahhh, um, no. It totally outed my Midwest roots.

"You have a Northern accent. That could either be the Chicago/Detroit/Cleveland/Buffalo accent (easily recognizable) or the Western New England accent that news networks go for."

Back in college, I tried hard to mimic newscasters' voices and inflections. For a few weeks during my sophomore year I sounded vaguely like Tom Brokaw. I can still go into newscaster speak or sound like the guy from Moviefone: "WHY don't you just TELL me the name of the movie you'd like to see?" During regular conversation, however, I couldn't shake the flat sound of my accent, so I tried instead to become more animated while talking, using jazz hands and facial expressions to make up for my deadened vowels.

My judgments have extended beyond myself. It took me a long time living in Philadelphia to hear a South Philly or thick Jersey or Longheyeland accent and not think, "Man, she should really do something about that." Back in the 80s, Valley Girl accents drove me nuts. Due to some choice Patrick Swayze movies and The Dukes of Hazzard, I drew some conclusions about folks with a Southern accent. I've since gotten to know people from all over the country and know better than to draw a conclusion between their regional peculiarities and their wit and intelligence. In fact, I've been downright charmed by a honeyed Southern voice and laughed until my sides hurt because of a New Yawk accent intentionally used to full effect.

I'm still waiting to be won over by my own voice, but I'm working on it.

Wal-Mart, take two

I just talked to my brother John, who schooled me on Wal-Mart's camping-friendly policies. They have always encouraged sleeping in the parking lot. That's why they made the parking spots so big.

Who knew?

Did you just say Wal-Mart?

My mom just went on a roadtrip to Texas and Nebraska in the camper she and my stepdad got a year or two back. I had visions of them stopping at KOAs every night, swapping stories and a cold one with fellow campers.

The reality was a bit different.

I called mom a couple of times on the cell phone she carries but rarely uses. The first time I called her up, she could barely hear me over the beeps and whirrs of the slot machines around her. They drove 700 miles and stopped at a casino for a "relaxing" four hours. Then they slept in the camper, which they parked in the casino parking lot, and hit the buffet the next morning.

I can't make this stuff up.

But it gets better. I called her another time when she was able to hear me better and she told me that for 10 days or so, they only spent about $250 on campground fees because they stopped for the night more than once in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Apparently, this is becoming accepted practice amongst the RV crowd and it makes sense from a business standpoint. For the inconvenience of having a rush on the bathrooms in the morning, Wal-Mart has a crowd waiting when it opens its doors. Crazy. Crazy like a fox…on both sides. Wal-Mart makes money, travelers save money. Not exactly communing with nature, but a memorable experience nonetheless.

I must confess, I sort of wish I was along for the ride (at least for a day).