I took the week off of work after my sons started back up at school so that I could, you know, take a nap or get a pedicure or just sit quietly after months of chaos. By Friday I had yet to accomplish any of those things, and so my husband suggested that we take a bike ride to Thompson, have lunch (and maybe a lunch beer), and then ride back with enough time for me to give napping another try before it was time to pick up the boys at 3:00. [Read on]
I have a Facebook friend who recently started a countdown to the end of what she calls “The garbage fire that is 2020.” If you share a similar sentiment, you are welcome to join me and my Jewish compadres for the Jewish New Year (called Rosh Hashanah), which begins tomorrow night at sundown. [Read on]
There is no better time to be a crazypants than during a pandemic.
From homemade masks to homemade hypochondria, if there has been something to obsessively worry about for the past six months, I’ve had it covered. This has been very lucky for my husband, Kyle, who has been awakened from a dead sleep more than once to answer questions such as [Read on, and the news is in there, I promise]
From sun up to about the time when the streetlights came on, my little sister and I spent every moment of our childhood summers outdoors. We’d ride bikes. We’d play at the park. We’d stake out a tiny plot of dirt to plant carrot seeds, which we’d pull up and eat long before they were ready. And when we were thirsty, we’d take a long drink of the crispy-cold water from the garden hose.
That comprises 100% of my memory of drinking water growing up.
One-hundred-ish years ago, my great-grandfather rolled his peddler’s cart into Grand Forks, North Dakota, decided he didn’t want to pay the tax to continue on into Minnesota, and opened the door to our family’s men’s clothing store, Silverman’s. Here are a few of my many, many, many memories of what it was like growing up surrounded by suits and hangars.
I don’t know about all of you, but lately it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day. I hope this poem is a reminder to you that every minute you are being you is just right.
I wrote this poem in 2018 after a particularly polarizing year of politics, social media fights, and all-around angry sentiments from even the nicest people I know. Now feels like a good time to share it with you, all kind readers.
Movies like “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “A Christmas Story” imbue the Midwestern spirit; but what if some of our other holiday favorites took place in the land of North Dakota Nice? Would “A Christmas Carol” be as magical if it took place in Jamestown and not London? Let’s find out.
I’m very sorry, all – I had a death in my family and, as such, am unable to post today’s news. I’ll be back tomorrow with our normal schedule of happy niceness.
As an apology, here is a recipe for Snowman Soup:
With talk of Canada separating into two countries and an American presidential election looming, it’s time we North Dakotans have a serious conversation about merging with our lovely compadres to the South. A state filled with nice people, national landmarks, and, of course, ranch dressing. That’s right: Arizona.
“You must not be from around here.”
If you are a North Dakotan that has stepped outside the sugar beet region of the Upper Midwest, you have probably heard this phrase – followed, of course, by:
”You’re the first person I’ve met from North Dakota.” Read on.
It’s the end of January, when the stores declare “Valentine’s Day!” and the weather shouts “Winter!” But there is another holiday season of equal importance: Amandamanium Pandamonium.
I am Jewish.
“Oh, are there a lot of Jews in North Dakota?” You may wonder. Let’s put it this way: we could throw a party for all of us at my synagogue and still have room for everyone to bring a friend.
I really like being Jewish in North Dakota, in part because I’ve always found non-Jewish North Dakotans to be interested in and enthusiastic about my religion.
The October air was crisp and grey, and it swirled the first few flakes of a building snowfall onto a cavalcade of campaign signs near the DeMers Bridge. In the car, my husband took my hand.
“Don’t be mad,” he twisted my wedding ring.