Had you been so fortunate to be a local lady friend of mine, you might have received an invitation like this:
Ladies Lefse Party
Wednesday December 12, 2012, 6:30 p – ?
-Robyn Parnell & Belle
Ladies Likely to be in attendance:
-the lovely and talented you
Ladies Unlikely to make an appearance:
–The Lady (and the Tramp)
-Michelle Obama and Nancy Reagan, or other Past and Present First Ladies
-Ladies Home Journal
–The Bare Naked Ladies
As always, your munificent, bed-bug-free hosts will provide lefse preparing accoutrements and serve lefse and Norwegian meatcakes for supper, in a festive yet pepper spray-free environment
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I am half-Irish, tribally-speaking (as are both of my parents), but residing within approximately 25% of my genes is a lefse-loving Norwegian. My mother’s full-blooded Irish mother married a full-blooded Norski. Perhaps it was the fabled Irish love for potatoes that was partly responsible for Bapa’s love of lefse. It certainly wasn’t her love of all things Norwegian. Although she adored her husband, Al, she refused to allow lutefisk  in her house. Every December Albert J. Hole  succumbed to the pull of tradition and purchased a chumbucket load fragrant batch of lutefisk atthe Lutheran Ladies ® Christmas bazaar, and every December Bapa would send her husband outside, in the Northern Minnesota winter, and make him partake of the lutefisk by himself, on the back porch.
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When I was a young–un my family’s one nod to honoring ethnicity or keeping The Olde Country Traditions ® was serving lefse and meatcakes for Christmas Eve dinner. The feast would be prepared by Bapa and her eldest daughter, my aunt Erva, who fled Spokane every year to winter in Southern California at Bapa’s house. Although my mother loved lefse she never acquired the knack of making it. Her children have continued the lefse dinner tradition with their own families, though none with the panache and sartorial elegance as the lefse events hosted by yours truly, if I dare say so moiself. And I just did.
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Speaking of lutefisk and other things that stink like an eel monger’s morning breath, Oregon has once again garnered another fifteen minutes of the national news tragedy spotlight, after the mall shooting earlier this week. TV media coverage of the tragedy saw the local stations engage in their typical, nuance-free, breathless blathering treatment (TERROR AT THE MALL!!!!) of anything they call a “breaking event.” The news anchors’ and on-sight reporters’ desperation to fill air time, to say something (even when it’s just been a few minutes after the 911 calls came in and no one really knows what’s going on, therefore there is nothing to say) would have been comical, save for the subject matter.
An interesting sign of the times, methought: a number of phone calls were made to TV news reporters from people who’d been inside the mall and had fled when the shooting started. Apparently, their first thought upon reaching saftey was to whip out their cell phones and share their story with the talking heads. Several callers stated they’d seen the shooter, before they realized he was The Shooter ®. The callers each described a young man wearing a load-bearing vest and a white mask, holding something long and rectangular (a semi-automatic rifle), running down a mall corridor. Uh…didn’t that seem alarming, or at least noteworthy? the reporters asked the callers. “Sure, but this is Oregon,” one caller replied, “and you see a lot of strange things in Oregon.” Another caller said he assumed the Masked Dude was running “…to join a flash mob,” or similar happening. Yep. If you see something bizarre, assume the Portlandia crew (or Leverage or Grimm ) is filming nearby.
* * *
About ten years ago there was a series of events that got Oregon in the national spotlight. There was the vacationing California family, on their way to the Oregon coast, who were stranded in the Siskiyou National Forest after the husband/father made the fatal mistake of trying to “shortcut” through a mountain range, driving a non-off road rental car on unfamiliar backcountry roads, in winter, in the snow. Then there was the incident involving nine climbers on Mt. Hood who fell into a crevasse (three killed, four critically injured). A military rescue helicopter, which had successfully plucked two of the injured climbers from the mountainside, returned for a third, tricky pickup at an altitude of over 10,000 feet. The helicopter began wobbling – the wind had suddenly shifted, and the copter’s rotors clipped the edge of the mountain. A news crew covering the rescue operation shot spectacular the video footage, which played over and over on the national news (and which was later featured in a National Geographic Amazing Moments special), of the copter plummeting into a snow-covered ridge and tumbling down the mountainside.
By the third event, which I cannot recall, more than a few friends sent me teasing emails to the effect that my MH and I were raising our children in a hazardous territory (“what’s going on in that wacky/dangerous state of yours?”). This prompted our son, K, to come up with a new state slogan: “Oregon – come for the thrilling recreational opportunities, stay for the rescue helicopter ride.”
* * *
There are several recipients deserving of the AssHat of the Week, in particular, yet another knowledge-free man in a position of power, this time a fucking judge, for the FSM’s sake. Superior Court Judge Derek Johnson , who evidently thinks that eating paint chips is a required judicial practice, said that a rape victim whose attacker threatened to mutilate her face and genitals with a heated screwdriver didn’t put up a fight during her assault, and that if someone doesn’t want sexual intercourse, the body “will not permit that to happen.”
But all that all that lefse has put me in a more generous mood, and I’d rather salute something positive. And so, without further ado or cursing, I promise, the Big-Hearted Big Nose Carrot Man award goes to Scarletta Press, whose awesome Director of Publicity, Desiree Bussier, is interviewed by Publisher’s Weekly about the publisher’s new emphasis on children’s literature, which will include my novel, The Mighty Quinn.
* * *
The new nametag’s here! The new nametag’s here!
Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing annual performance review from Intel . As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer, or any occupation working freelance at/from home, is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to alleviate them…sort of.
About the nametag. You’re at your office party, or a fund raiser for an animal rescue organization, or a neighborhood potluck, your spouse’s family reunion – you’re at an event that is primarily social and so the guest’s professions are irrelevant, and there are a bunch of people who probably aren’t acquainted with one another, so the hosts greet you with those Hello-my-name-is nametags and felt pens at the door. Summon your Andy Rooney voice for this next sentence. Have you ever wondered, when you’re at the kind of party I just described, why some people just can’t leave their credentials behind?
Since I don’t plan on suing the guy who took the last cheese doodle from the appetizer platter, why do I need to know that you’re a lawyer? Yes, you probably worked hard for your degree, as the other guests did for theirs, but in this venue your LL.D. is no BFD, and appending your name with those initials only serves to give the impression that your main credential is that of I.m.D. (imperious dickhead).
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not one of those attorney-haters. Some of my best friends are lawyers. And while the legal profession is much (and often rightly) maligned and thus I chose an easy target for my example, in my experience doctors are the worst when it comes to the afore-mentioned nametag faux pas. If the party has no relation to medicine, not even remotely, and I don’t plan on having a pap smear right here by the punchbowl, why do you think I need to know you’re a doctor?
Hello, my name is
Dr. Pomp O’Ass
Richard Head, Ph.D.; M.D.
I custom ordered my own nametag from a local office supplies store, and it’s finally here! As you can see, it reads Robyn Parnell, N.a.D.
As in, Not a Doctor.
Bring on the next party. I am so ready.
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Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 My maternal grandmother, so nicknamed by my older sister, who couldn’t properly say “grandma” until she was in her late forties.
 Some ethnographers believe the preponderance of lutefish in the Norwegian diet was largely responsible for the Norwegian migration to America in the early 1800s.
 Yes, Hole. I wonder why my mother never considered keeping her original surname.
 I had an Aunt Erva. So did you, although yours may have had a different name. Everyone has had an Aunt Erva.
 Her 3 daughters, at least. My brother, I dunno. Yo, bro, are you a Lefse Dude?
 The father died of exposure after setting out to find help. The mother and their two young girls were found alive, days later, by a helicopter pilot.
 He doesn’t actually work there, but they’d heard he was a good guy.
 Always left by the previous user, who loudly wonders who did this evil thing?!
 Okay, I have one lawyer friend. If only she were a lawyer-of-color, or lesbian.
 I like doctors, too. If only that friend of mine were a doctor, as well. A biracial, bilingual, pan-sexual, multi-cultural doctor and lawyer.