Hotter Than a Pepper Sprout

Today I took some time off from work to catch the Italian fashion exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. It closes Sunday and has been wildly popular, so if I was going to squeeze in this particular bit of culture, it was now or never. The logistics of getting there in the midst of our arctic cold spell and dealing with parking and crowds was a pain in the ass, but the outing was definitely worth it. And although the Italian fashion exhibit was amazing, it turned out to not even be the main attraction. I love clothes, but know almost nothing about designer fashion. Oh, I can converse at length about Target brands, but that's where my fashion expertise ends. So I mostly just wandered around the galleries, trying not to bump into anyone while admiring the pretty dresses. And there were very, very pretty dresses on display. It's hard to imagine a reality where I would ever don such an elaborate dress bedazzled with feathers or jewels or sequins or lace. (It would definite...

I don't think my family had a lot of Christmas traditions, or at least not traditions in the traditional sense. We definitely didn't have any cultural or ethnic traditions beyond the standard basic American practice of having a tree and presents. We also had the standard rural/German/Lutheran tradition of not showing any sentiment or affection, but that was a tradition we upheld year round. My mom wasn't into holiday baking (beyond her famous--or infamous--jello balls) and we were content with whatever cookies and treats her co-workers and students sent home with her.  So it's not any special food or activity or present that I remember most about Christmas, but my mother's love of Christmas music. My most powerful (if not accurate) memories of listening to the Christmas records (yes, actual records!) my mom played were in the dark and sleep-deprived early mornings before school. These songs always filled me with hope, not for peace on earth or Santa, but for Ch...

Tonight when I got to the gym after work, I discovered I hadn't brought my work-out clothes. After about 15 minutes of panic, anger, and indecision (and a frustrated trip to the the club store), I decided I could work out in my sweats, my regular (black) bra and a slightly see-through lacy tank top. I reasoned I wasn't indecent or anything, I just looked like an idiot, and I could live with that. (Luckily, I had brought my tennis shoes and sweatpants). This little drama reminded me of something someone said at church recently, that they were going to be grateful for all the minor irritations of life. This little incident seems the perfect embodiment of this sentiment. Despite all my frustration, it contained many things to be grateful for: that I can afford a gym membership in the first place, that my schedule is flexible enough that I can go to the gym after work, and that even though I had to deal with bra-strap slippage, I'm not well-endowed enough to need a sports bra...