German Ivy

Plants have been calling to me lately. Every time I leave the house I return with a green leafed member of our biosphere, much to the consternation of my wife who notes the containers full of dirt and scraggly plants popping up around the house. Seeds seem to be demanding a go at life, too. I have several seeds from Avocados to Almonds thinking about sprouting, or at least I'm thinking about them sprouting even though they appear to just be molding. At least they had their chance.

I had been really wanting to get an ivy (a strange thing to be wanting, I know), and I randomly came across this little plant called German Ivy, and I thought, "It's German. I'm German. Maybe we can have some kind of understanding and camaraderie between us." I do not know what makes it German Ivy. It doesn't seem to respond to sour Kraut, require continual refreshments of Beer, or acknowledge Polka music in the slightest. Definitely not your typical German Plant. It makes me think that it has not spent that much time out of the wild. I like to think that it hales from the Black Forest, and that there is something mysterious bound up in its roots that time will reveal.

In other news, since I've done such an amazing job of keeping up with this blog, I thought I would start another blog, but I won't tell you anymore about it right now. I want to focus my content more plus shift out of this blog anyway since the name is based on our old address. More news later.

Seussical

Operation "Make-High-Schoolers-Build-Seussical" has now commenced. It promises to be a ton of work. Hopefully the highschoolers of Lakeville South leap to the challenge, and while leaping, somehow build this set.

To the right is a squished, sideways, preliminary sketch of what we are shooting for. I just spent a long time trying to rotate that picture. Computers sure save me loads of time.

The last set I designed and built for them was for their one act competition, and that was a paper-mache mess that turned into quite a beautiful, disassembleable tree. There is still a film of glue covering the whole scene shop reminding us of past wars fought in the name of art. There promises to be Florescent paint in the underwater bellet, Secret hatches, Slide, Firemen pole, maybe spandex. What more could an audience ask for?

In other news, I've been thinking about starting a new blog or so at a new address. Maybe one more focused on a particular theme. Take the survey on the right. Let me know what you might be interested in hearing more about.

Go, Dogs, Go!

We are still unpacking into our house. I think one finally reaches the nirvana of successful moving by finding the best and most aesthetic ways to hide everything. Somethings you want to hide in the open: chairs, tables, tvs, pictures, art, gifts people expect to see; other things you just want out of the public eye: extra jugs of car anti-freeze, dirty underwear, box of things you don't know where to put, but you don't want to throw away, guns, clean underwear, paint cans, top-secret files; and then there is the things you will most likely never need: extra doorknobs, random pieces of wood, broken lamp you intend (but not really) to fix, pieces to that thing that you don't even know what it is but should keep all the same just in case it turns up. Yesterday I realized that the middle of our kitchen was still filled with boxes, jars, Gladware, cellophane, etc., and that most of our cabinets and drawers were still empty. One makes a split second decision (I'm going to put the measuring spoons . . . here), and it will probably be that way for many a year.


I am rifling through the packed books today and I find a bag in which resides merely three books. Two of them are about the fattest tomes I own: 1,589 pages of “The Bible Knowledge Commentary: Old Testament” and 1,290 pages of “Systematic Theology.” However, Sandwiched inbetween those two monsters is the paltry 64, one to two sentence, pages of P. D. Eastman's “Go, Dog. Go!” I do not know why they are packed together. Except that it possibly means to me that somewhere between understanding the Old Testament and having an overview of theology, one must understand the simple truths of “Do you like my hat?” / “I do not like that hat.” , “A green dog on a yellow tree. . . . A yellow dog under a tree. . . . Look at those dogs go. Go, Dogs. Go!”

Squirrel Nostril Size

I noticed a squirrel pilfering through our compost pile today. What a city squirrel could possibly want out of pile of eggshells, yam peels, tea bags, orange peels, apple cores, bannana peels, and egg cartons is, to me, mysterious. He is probably just studying what kind of lifestyle we lead, analyzing our threat level since we are newer on the block than he is, and reporting back to squirrel HQ where, I'm sure, they keep a neighborhood diagram with pinned-up bits of food and dog intellegence.


I kind of want a squirrel-sized landmine, but I'm sure to get a neighbors cat or child or granny or something. Rebekah told me that her boss puts cracked corn out to glut the squirrels on so they don't eat the rest of her garden. Though that may be wise, it doesn't sound like my immediate line of thinking at all. “Hey, I hate what you do to my garden. Here's some cracked corn instead.”

Kyle and Rebekah thinking: “Hey, I hate what you do to our garden. Climb in this trap so I can skin you, roast your body, and wear your pelts as a warning to your brood.”

Actually, as much as I want my thinking to be just that, I don't have a garden, it's the middle of winter, and he sure looks cute. He can have all the compost he wants as long as he doesn't spread it around or come knocking on the door asking for seconds. It's going to be another story come Summer and he's stealing my strawberries though.

I do think that he is stealing berries out of the loose-leaf tea I bought Rebekah. There are whole, whole I tell you, craisins in her tea. Who puts whole berries in their tea mix? You can eat it like a bag of granola mix. Actually, it's really good but still?

Rebekah's and my conversation about supplying the squirrels with cracked corn devolved into just supplying them with straight Crack, forget the corn, which, of course, lead to a conversation about squirrel nostril size. Now, the more I think about the words squirrel and nostril together, the funnier I think it is. Please enjoy those two words together at least a dozen time today.

About a week in the new house. I can't believe that we have lived here that long already. This house is almost eerily quite and dark—no neighbors playing Halo on the other side of the wall, no people clomping through the hall laughing at full force, no street lights shining through the window, no omnipresent spouse always together in that two hundred sixty square foot box (even though we still seem to always be in the same room anyway. We must like each other).


I realized that I can't watch horror movies here—kind of a strange realization, I suppose. Not one I expected. It must be the oldness, the darkness, the silence, the dilapidated bits (a combination of all that). I almost watched a horror flick the other night, but I would be jittery now if I had. At least I have the shotgun right here. Maybe I should find some bullets to go with it. Of course a shotgun probably wouldn't work on a paranormal apparition manifested out of the morass of my disturbed mind. In the moment it would probably seem like a very good idea to try anyway. Shooting a shotgun in the house is every young mans dream, isn't it? I should probably start taking it with me when I go into the basement/crawlspace (whatever you want to call it). There is a pair of shoes lying awry down there in the shadows. That's spooky, right? There is something about empty shoes and misshapen wads of clothes that could probably use one or two rounds of clay-pigeon shot, just in case there is something even slightly amiss.

I'm not used to this much space. I've lived in a shoebox with Rebekah so long that now I am lost in the woods in this new house. We don't even use the upstairs yet, even though there is tons of space up there. Ultimately that will probably be our bedroom, but penultimately our bed is in the front downstairs room and will probably be there for awhile.

My brother Kurt asked if we had problems with ice dams, and my immediate reaction is to think, “I don't have problems with ice dams,” as if he'd asked me if I suffered from indigestion or something. But once he explained it, I realized that our roof is covered in ice dams. I'm sure it is mostly because our gutters are screwed up. Just another thing to discover in the great home ownership adventure.

New House

We moved into our new house on Friday. One would think after all this trouble obtaining it, that there would be an angel chorus when we came in, but it was just an empty, ratty, old—awesome—house. We were excited though. We did our own angel chorus including swing dancing in all the space, watching a movie, cooking an onion sausage combo with sliced tomatoes. Very delicious.

All our stuff is mountained in one room of the house except for a few tendrils of various things vining into other rooms: toothbrushes to the bathroom, cookware to the kitchen, a trail of bedding to the futon, and me to my nook. I have chosen, at least for the present, in what room my writing nook is going to be and I am sitting behind its closed door right now with only the laptop, a chair and pillow, and a cup of tea. This tiny room alone feels cavernous. It is about half the size of our studio apartment by itself, but it is empty save for me and my most fundamental writing tools.

This house has some great quirky things going on for it. Being built in the year 1900, it can't help but be a little strange. If I were made in 1900, I, too, would definitely have made sure to be strange by now.

I love looking at walls and thinking, “I could tear that down if I wanted—'cause it's mine! ha ha.” But I calm down once I realize that my hammer is buried in stuff-mountain someplace and that would mean that I have to get up and then I'd get whiny and the pounding and manic laughter would wake Rebekah—it would just be horrible. Better to sit and stare at the wall, drink my tea, and realize that both tea and wall are under my dominion. Daunting, eh?

The Blue Whale is not Extinct!

I just found out that the largest mammal on the planet is not extinct. I don't know who fed me the lie about the whale, but fie on them. I have believed it my whole life. How could I have lived in darkness so long with something so large swimming on the same planet as me? How could one not notice around two million metric tons of Blue Whales in the world?

It's like being told your whole life that you don't have something as obvious as armpits, and then one morning realizing you do. A whole world of possibilities opens up for you. Albiet a world filled with greasy, smelly, hairy mess, yes, but also the beauty of armpit farts and manly arms-akimbo stances.

Its like scales have fallen from my eyes, and nothing appears the same anymore. Waves of truth lap over my consciousness again and again. I'm seeing everything through the lens of Blue Whale Existences. Everywhere I look, Everyone I see is obscured by the one blue thought: They're here hiding someplace.

GRE studying

I am currently studying to take the GRE to bulster my application to Graduate school and doing worse every practice test I take. I have become conviced that I know no math, hardly know English, and seemingly can't understand what I read. It's a good thing that practice tests can't assess my essays, or I'm sure I would be found a dunce there as well. Oh, well such is life. I feel reletively ok with my duncehood, though I've decide that I need to memorize the dictionary, and I have two week to do it. I should have started ten years ago; perhaps I would have at least finished the A's by now.

New beginning

We cannon-balled into creating this blog with much pomp, fanfare, and rioting, a veritable donnybrook of excitement; yet after a few pithy entries, left it to stale. My only excuse besides the vie between craziness and laziness, not to mention my natural propensity toward lackadaisical sybaritism, is that our computer began to suffer a degenerative disease and subsequent mental breakdown which landed it in the emergency room, quailing at the cusp of its mortal(i.e. useful) existence. "There's a cure," says the geek squad, and they've taken it to a fresh-aired resort & spa, so it can convalesce in peace.

We've been house shopping. Yes, house shopping. I love looking at houses. It's an exploration in the wild every time. We made a bid on one great house that looked like an old person exploded inside after buttering an inch of tobacco stains unto the walls. It was quite spectacular. We didn't get it though.

We did just win the bid on another house. So now we have to figure out all that we have to do. We hope to keep a record of any renovations we do if we get it. We'll tell you more about it later.

We are going to attempt again to do a better job of updating this blog. Enjoy.

Careening away . . .

A few weeks ago, Rebekah and I ventured into a new hobby, a randomly selected book at the library being the criminal catalyst. Some may refer to our new hobby as “running” others “jogging,” but if I had my choice, it would be christened “careening.” If one observed me jogging (if that is what one calls it) that person might find it very much like the jogging of others; however, eyes once trained, would definitely pick out the subtleties that differ other activities from the act of careening.
The book we apprehended from the library, though incredibly helpful and ultimately culpable for our present predicament, said nothing of careening. You will have to infer all the juicy delights of careening on your own.
The book The Beginning Runner's Handbook compels a person to leisurely, yet consistently, build ones training, and since I tend to over-run (and subsequently die) every time I get the sudden hanker, it is a great strategy for me with an actual goal in mind: thirteen weeks to running 10 kilometers without a problem. Rebekah also boarded the jogging wagon, and together we shall rule this highway called fitness . . . or health, or wellness, or some other daft name.
Two blocks away from us, there lies a store called The Running Room, and believe it or not, they know quite a bit about running. We confirmed there, us already suspecting, that Rebekah's feet pronate (collapse inward) slightly. But we also discovered, us not suspecting, that my right foot pronates slightly also. “Strange,” I mutter to myself. “I know,” was the response. “Who woulda suspected?”
New shoes from The Running Room have entered our lives and though a bit pricey they are the most comfortable, airy shoes to ever tear up a Twin City sidewalk with a Kyle Jaeger inside. . . . Well, could be true. The shoes complement our new fitness regime which has been low stress and entirely doable. That's all for my sales pitch. We'll tell you more if our calves explode or knee caps pop off or lungs capsize.

Not a Toy... Not quite anyway.

Here is some pictures of the newest, shiniest member of our family: a Honda Nighthawk CB650 SC. It is almost the exact same bike I used to have but with a few differences. Rebekah was pleased with the color which is very important. It had been a project bike for a high school kid and his dad. They had cleaned out the carburetors, replaced several bits, and walla, bike for him. We felt a little guilty buying it from him though because while we were there about a half dozen of his high school buddies showed up on motorcycles, and since we were buying his bike he was going to have to follow them in a car--a shame really.

Today is Rebekah's birthday to, so you should call and bug her as much as possible. Really I should have had a picture of her and her new helmet on the bike--A hot picture indeed.

It's Saturday

Saturday is that day that we justify putting off all those things that we know we should be doing because it's the weekend. Others days (we still put it off, don't get me wrong) there is a twinge of occasional--yet, thank goodness--quickly stifled guilt.

Above, there is a few pictures, obviously from the Mall of America, of two loves of mine: candy (though I hardly ever eat any) . . . and logging trucks (though I never get to drive any). Rebekah is in there too. I guess she is also high up there on the love list.

Rebekah and I love going shopping together which, conveniently enough, one can do at the Mall of America. We nearly never buy anything though, just try on clothes, pose, and take pictures; talk about and secretly point at nearly every person that walks past; and generally guffaw our guts out. It doesn't take much to entertain us; one would be surprised.

We have been house shopping in the St. Paul area. Interesting, eh? I've lately learned more about mortgages than I thought there was to know. We probably won't buy til next year, but it is exciting to look. I hope to do very interesting remodelling projects and keep everyone updated about them via the blog. Yesterday I picked up a random book by a Jeff Yaeger, of all the names, and he talked about remodelling their house out of unique recyclable materials. Sounded very cool. He also claimed to be The Ultimate Cheapskate which is the title of his book. It was a little funny, but I can't recommend it for I only read bits and pieces. I am all about financial wisdom, and Rebekah and I practice incredible frugality. But there where thoughts in his book that made me feel that there was an element of stifling hospitality which I abhor. (Not that we are as hospitable as we ought to be.) Someone should write a book "Hospitality on a Shoestring." Who knows maybe it is not like that. I did hardly read any of it.

In other news, tonight or tomorrow we are going to see "The Tempest" in the park, and next week we are going to see "Singing in the Rain" at the Ordway with Uncle Al and family. We are looking forward to seeing them.

Grand Old Days

We found ourselves adequately candied at Grand Old Days festival about a week ago. Despite the rain-threating weather, there seemed to be quite the quagmire of bodies festivalling, partying, parading, and parade watching two blocks from our apartment on Grand Ave.

We managed to trade a pint each of our blood for some free pizza coupons which we dined on at Punch a couple days later. Puch is totally a great pizza place that makes me want to do mozaics. Also while there we scored some "mystery tickets" for a mysterious amount of rides at The Mall of America which we used yesterday. Its been a while since I put my organs through that kind of abuse. Luckily the uncontrolable screaming released any tension that they were feeling about it.

"If I was any more relaxed I'd be dead."

How to begin this new blogging extravaganza is beyond me. The title of our first blog was spontaneously decided in a moment of humorous banter, so don't suspect that it will have anything to do with all that is to come. I should probably relate that the title is a quote from the ever flavorful classic "The Rescuers Down Under". If you haven't seen it, I'm sorry, you probably had little to no childhood.

No more introductory dilly-dally. We have nearly lived in St. Paul Minnesota for a year in a tiny apartment located somewhere in the photo above. Before that we lived in Switzerland and before that Tennessee. If you want to hear more about those places well forget it. St. Paul is were we are now. Perhaps as we progress into the future I will regress to the past. Look forward to that.

Our hope with this site is to create a community for family and friends within which to dabble in and share Art, photography, writing, and whatever else comes to mind; and where we can explore design, thoughts, and life. Expect slow going here in the beginning. Please link to us and get email updates once we figure out how that works. May all the brouhaha now begin.

Kyle