For as long as I can remember, I have gained weight every winter. I usually lose it in the spring and summer, but once it starts to cool off, I pack on the pounds.
A few nights ago I asked my husband Jesse, “How much weight can I gain before you stop loving me?”
“I won’t stop loving you, Connie.”
“You sure?” I asked. “It’s getting pretty bad.”
“I’m sure.”
“We have months to go before it’s warm again.”
“I’m sure.”
***
And of course he won’t stop loving me and I won’t stop loving him.
***
When you are lucky enough to love — and be loved — unconditionally, it’s unnecessary to spend even one second publicly complaining.
***
Jesse and I are headed to Tuesdays@9 so I only had a few minutes to write a shorty tonight. Thanks for reading a blog post I will resist calling “Fatty’s Shorty.”
-Connie
P.S. The photo is from the holiday show at Tuesdays@9 Chicago when I played Santa. No padding needed for my costume!
The morning after the Cubs won the 2016 World Series, I saw my neighbor in his front yard. I was neatening my little library and he was walking toward his car which was parked on the street. It was unusual for his car to be there. He usually parks in his driveway, which has a “Cubs Fan Only” sign in it.
“You must be in a pretty good mood today,” I said to him.
He crossed over to me and said, “I am.” He was smiling and looked joyous.
He shared with me me how he had “watched” the game with his adult daughters over the phone and how stressful and fun it was. He told me how happy they all were when the Cubs won. He was still smiling.
“I picked up a few extra copies of the paper this morning,” he said as he patted the newspaper that was tucked under his arm.
He told me he was on his way to meet his brother at their dad’s gravesite. He unfurled his newspaper. It had CUBS WIN plastered across the front page.
“I’m going to leave this for my dad,” he said. “He won’t believe it, not even in heaven.” And off he went.
I loved that moment, but I don’t watch or play sports or necessarily believe in heaven. But I love it when my friends’ and families’ teams win.
Thanks for reading. -Connie
P.S. I live in Rockford have been commuting weekly to Chicago for several years. It was fun to see the city skyline light up in different ways to support their team during the games.
In 8th grade, we read The Lottery by Shirley Jackson in English class. We watched the film, too. Reading the short story, seeing the film and, several years later, reading the Brainerd Duffield play, still feels like a literary win to me. It is one of those rare stories that is excellent on the page, on the stage and on the screen. I just asked my two youngest kids if they’ve read it and they shook there heads. I texted Sam and he said “no.” Jocelyn is at college but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t either. How did I let this happen? Note to self: Show kids The Lottery during Spring Break.
***
At Cornell College, where I went to college, there was a dorm lottery every year. If your number was drawn, you and your roommate(s) could pick whatever dorm you wanted. Some dorms, especially in the old Victorian houses, were more spacious than others, so if your number was called, you could nab one of the nicer rooms. My friends Ishanee, Betsy and Mona won this lottery and lived in the sprawling “attic” in Rood House. I lived in the same “house” but in a different dorm but was over there all the time. It felt like my win because they were awesome theatre friends and we had a lot of laughs. After every rehearsal or performance or class or whatever, we’d meet in their room and talk it over. More than 30 years later, I still need to “deconstruct” after every rehearsal, reading and performance.
***
And there was that lottery with the Minnesota Fringe Festival. In the early aughts, so many people would want to perform, the administration was forced to draw names to see who could participate. I was one of the winners! My name was drawn and my four short plays The Rub, The Catholic, The Mason Jar and Mother’s Nature were part of the 2002 Minnesota Fringe Festival. This blog post’s “featured image” is a cast photo. Can you find Jesse in there? He still has that t-shirt.
Two Bonus Lottery-like Wins
In 2003, I unexpectedly received a check for $450.00 It was a state tax return and to this day, I have no idea why I got it. I thought it was a mistake and made several calls to verify the veracity of this windfall. Once I knew it was true, I got a manicure at the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota and bought new work wardrobe from Old Navy, also located at the Mall of America. Do I know how to have a good time or what?
In 2004, I had a day job at Coldwell Banker Burnett. After working there for several months, I was promoted from receptionist to listing coordinator, probably because of my sharp business wardrobe. A few weeks into my new position, I received a paycheck that was a few hundred dollars higher than what I was supposed to receive. I talked to my boss Roberta about it. I was sure she’d tell me I have to give it back but she said something about things being in “arrears.” Later, she verified that “monies” from my first paychecks had been in some type of holding and now were deposited into my bank account because I had a new position. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! Why did God love me so much? This was definitely a win but I still don’t know what “arrears” or “monies” are.
***
There haves many lottery and lottery-like wins in my life and it stands to reason there will be a few more and that’s more than enough for me.
Thanks for reading! -Connie
P.S. Verify the veracity? There has to be a better way to say that, but I have to go.
Today I’m reading “Beach Read” by Emily Henry. It’s a romance.
The protagonist, January, writes romance novels. Don’t worry, she’s fully aware of what people think of romance authors, aka “women.”
January’s funny and smart; but also disillusioned, grieving and competitive. Her nemesis is Augustus and she thinks he’s pretentious. She calls him “Gus” and says he writes about “white guys wandering the world, misunderstood and coldly horny.”
He says she writes about love-struck pirates.
They were writing rivals in college and now both are successful authors of different genres. She calls his work “Hemingway circle-jerk fan fiction.” He refers to her work as “happily ever afters.” By the end of page seven, even the dumbest reader (often me!) figures out that “Beach Read” is a love story about January and Gus.
I’m not reading it for the plot. I’m reading it because it’s clever and fun. January drives a shitty Kia, drinks too much and connects a farting Labrador retriever to her late father’s mistress. What’s not to love?
I’m also reading because there’s insight into the publishing world: She and Gus are writing each other’s books with a promise to endorse each other’s books. Interesting.
And I’m reading it because it’s never a bad idea to learn something about the younger generation: January is 29. I’m not sure how old Gus and her best friend Shadi are, but they’re probably very close to 29, if not actually 29.
Oh! And on page 8, I learned that a “grow house” is a house where people illegally grow weed. Knowing that will come in handy, watch.
Emily Henry writes memorable tertiary characters. There’s Shadi, a waitress, who lives in a tiny apartment in Chicago and “saved the day by shaving her her head in the bathroom.”
And Grace! She’s in her fifties and “has the rounded shoulders of someone who’d spent a lot of time sitting, but not necessarily relaxed.” (Truck driver.)
And there’s snappy dialogue:
JANUARY: Any ideas for the not-terrible version of this book?”
AUGUSTUS: I mean, I liked the south-of-France pitch. That’s shit’s fire.”
Out of context, that probably reads terrible, but I assure you it’s snappy and hilarious.
***
As a struggling playwright, I like to study how successful authors write dialogue, comedy, tension and chemistry.
Correction: As a struggling playwright, I like to study how successful authors write.
***
I just realized the prompt isn’t, “Why are you reading what you want, Connie?”
Oh.
As Gilda Radner’s “Emily Litella” once said, “Never Mind.”
Growing up, we had an Italian feast for Christmas every year with lasagna being the portata principale.
My dad would drive all over Rockford to procure authentic spices, cheeses and oils. He didn’t only shop at “big” grocery stores like Hilander and Logli. There were little markets like Cacciatore’s and the 320 Store he’d visit for fresh meats and produce. One December morning he came home with an armload of stringed boxes containing fresh, homemade cannoli. He said he bought them from an old apron-wearing Italian lady out of her house in southwest Rockford. He called her his “cannoli dealer.”
***
Mom was the Christmas chef. Over the course of several days, she lovingly prepared the meal. Special pots and pans appeared like guest stars in her kitchen. The tall copper-bottomed sauce pan was the dazzling matinee idol. The broiler pan she used for the meatballs was the comedic sidekick. The cheese grater was the foil character: a “Nellie Oleson” character used for grating several pounds of cheese.
There were several others “actors” and Mom directed her huge cast and crew with remarkable ease, artistry and precision. Italian cooking is not necessarily tidy. There’s potential for a lot of splatter, but her kitchen was neat and organized; and her sink always seemed to filled with fresh, hot, sudsy water.
***
Christmas Eve meant pickins. Pickins were select cuts of Italian meats simmering in homemade sauce. There was no ceremony for this meal — we literally just picked the pickins whenever we felt like it — but the meal felt sacred nonetheless.
Christmas afternoon meant antipasti, an enormous board layered with with a sheet of huge romaine leaves of romaine lettuce then topped with delectable Italian cheeses, cured meats, olives and other veggies. It was lightly drizzled with olive oil. Maybe even sprinkled with some red vinegar, salt and pepper.
Christmas Day was when the lovely silverware and the gorgeous gold-plated dishes appeared. The plates were works of art, literally. I think I remember some kind of bucolic courtship scene painted on the plates. The silverware came out of a secretive velvet-lined wooden box that was kept tucked away in the buffet. Over the years, the table was set with different linen napkins, crystal goblets, tablecloths and taper candles.
Christmas dinner was served with salad, garlic bread and chianti.
Christmas night meant we could finally eat the cannoli. The strings were loosed from the boxes and I swear golden light shone from the tube shaped glory! I remember pretending to be stuffed, but I wasn’t. I would sigh with relief when there were enough for each of us to have two cannoli. I loved cannoli and I loved that my sister Rani sometimes called me “Cannoli.”
Christmas late night meant staying up to watch HBO after everyone went to bed so I could heat up the “leftover” lasagna and (to the tune of Silent Night) “eat in heavenly peace.”
Christmastime provided the ultimate comfort food. The comfort started the second I saw my parents sitting at their kitchen table, writing out the grocery list several days before the holiday. The comfort continued when I would see the pantry and fridge populate with new ingredients. And the comfort continued when the house would fill up with the aroma of the sauce and meatballs and melting cheese. It continued when I saw my mom and sister draping long rectangular half-cooked noodles over the “matinee idol” as the prepared to layer the lasagnas. It continued when I stuck my hands in the hot, sudsy water “for fun.” It continued when my dad volunteered to eat a “dirty meatball.” It continued, it continued, it continued. And really, the comfort continues in the form of warm memories.
***
Rani, my brother Dave and his wife Joan still cook these authentic meals every year. This past year, Rani and Mom started preparing the feast together at Mom’s house. My sister Phyllis does it from time to time, too, with a vegetarian twist. I would love to tell you that I, too, continue this glorious tradition but trust me when I tell you I do not have the attention span to cook like that. There is a reason my husband Jesse calls me “Mrs. Burnpots.”
***
Several years ago, Rani started gifting lasagnas to my family every Christmas. She sends over salad, bread, grated cheese and pickins. She also gifts us an enormous platter of fresh baked Christmas cookies a few days ahead of the big day. Jesse has been calling her “Cookie Dasher” for years and at some point, usually early in December, when he’s hungry, he’ll suddenly shout down at me from his upstairs office, “What’s the deal with Cookie Dasher?! She makin’ lasagnas?!” Then I’ll go up there and insist on speaking quietly about this matter because we mustn’t hex our good fortune with unnecessary yelling.
“God, I hope so,” I tell him in as comforting a voice as possible. “But we have to wait and see.” Then I’ll go back downstairs and make him some ants on a log.
***
All of Rani’s masterpieces arrive at our front door in a manner reminiscent of “Ding Dong Ditch.” We rarely see her when it happens. It’s the best and it’s hilarious and it’s awesome and it’s heartwarming and yes: Jesse and I know we are spoiled rotten!
I don’t have any pictures from my childhood Christmases and I don’t have any good photos of Rani’s lasagnas. You can see one of her lasagnas in the photo at the top. It’s surrounded by sides, which is the food I prepare for the holiday. The photo shows how the Kuntz family “traditionally” eats but it doesn’t do the lasagna (that was devoured within 30 minutes) justice.
***
Most meals I serve are on charcuterie boards. Even at Thanksgiving, there is no portata principale. Just sides. They’re delicious, just not exactly “traditional.” At least not yet.
Thanks for reading. This was a long one! -Cannoli
Thanksgiving ‘Kuntz style’: no turkey, just sides and pie.
I like figuring out what happens when I push all the buttons.
WordPress has all sorts of buttons I can insert into my blog but not a lot of instruction so I learn by trial and error.
(1) I started inserting the “Subscribe” button. If you enter your email, then my blog post goes directly to your inbox.
(2) A few days ago, I inserted a poll into my post Poll-lease come up with a fresh prompt. I instantly became addicted with the poll results. What can I say? I like engagement! Here’s another one.
(3) Event Countdowns make me not want to participate. They also remind me that my brain naturally remembers stupid dates.
1707112800
days
hours minutes seconds
until
My Ex-Boyfriend’s Son’s Birthday!
Mind you, this was not a serious boyfriend. It was a fling that lasted a few weeks in the 90s. A blip. A flash in the pan. But every year on the fifth of February, I remember my ex-boyfriend’s son’s birthday. Why?
(4) Here’s a “rate button.” (Located below picture of Barbara.) Please give the expression on my dog’s face a five-star rating.
Barbara
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 5 out of 5.
Edited: The rating button does not work. Here’s a “thumbs” option instead. Click the thumb that best expresses your opinion of the expression on Barbara’s face:
(5) This is a “carousel,” apparently. Click an arrow and it will take you round and round my most recent blog posts. Is this merry-go-round fun or does it make you wanna barf?
(6) Often, playbills will include a timeline of plays that are historical or implement time travel or a combination of the two. I used to love studying these timelines.
THINGS CONNIE REMEMBERS BECAUSE OF TIMELINES IN PLAYBILLS
1937 – Tom Stoppard is born in Czechoslovakia.
2024 – Realizes the only reason she remembers that detail is because she co-wrote the playbill timeline for Arcadia by Tom Stoppard when she was the “assistant to the dramaturg.” Damn. Assistant to the dramaturg? Realizes that’s kind of pathetic. However, the assistant to the dramaturg loved the play so much she was willing to do anything for it.
2019 – Immediately resented having to scan QR codes instead of playbills when going to see live theatre. Wondered, “Am I a Karen?”
2024 – Decided inserting timelines into playbills is a silly but necessary part of producing and marketing certain genres and sub-genres of theatre.
2024 – Still prefers playbills to QR codes but will accept QR codes as a supplement. Does not see herself as anti-environment or a Karen.
2024 – Still considers Tom Stoppard her favorite playwright. Still loves Arcadia.
(7) You can also insert verse or a pull-quote.
From the song “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa
Yo, yo, yo, yo, baby-pop Yeah, you! Come here, gimme a kiss Better make it fast or else I’m gonna get pissed Can’t you hear the music pumping hard? Like I wish you would Now push it
(8) This is a “featured image.” That means WordPress cannot use one of their photos for your blog. This image of my dog napping while a squirrel scurries by, even though it has nothing to do with today’s blog post, will show up on the WordPress reader and everywhere else. The difference between a “featured image” and a regular image is I cannot insert a caption with the featured image.
(9) I am also experimenting with the “category” button. Today’s the first day I assigned this the “bloganuary” category. I wonder what will happen!
There are dozens of other “buttons” but I am out of leisure time. Thanks for reading and letting me experiment with the buttons! Now it’s time for me to publish and see if any of them work! -Connie
You know those brown signs with white lettering that indicate a nearby attraction? I find them irresistible. Jesse and our kids seem to appreciate them, too. In the 19 years of being a parent, I can’t think of a single time anyone in my family has turned down the “opportunity” to follow a brown sign. I can confidently say we have checked out every scenic overlook, city park, museum, historic building, historic district, statue, sculpture, monument, memorial, bridge, what-have-you in the Rockford region.
Except one.
There is a brown sign indicating a train museum about 40 minutes from home in a town called Marengo. Jesse was the first to hear about this museum that’s a “repository of railroad history.”
“We should go,” he said in 2008, when we only had two kids.
“We should go,” he said in 2009, when we had three kids.
“We should go,” he said in 2010, when we had four kids.
“We should go,” he said in 2011. “It’s family friendly!”
We wanted to go, but the museum has limited hours. Every time we tried to plan a trip, the museum was closed.
“That’s too bad,” Jesse would say.
I didn’t think too much of it because I had only heard of the train museum through my husband. I had never seen a single ad — in print or online — about it. I had never seen a brown sign.
***
In 2014, the Des Plaines Oasis (a rest stop) permanently closed. This was bad news for the Kuntz family. We stopped there every time we went to Chicago. It was the last chance for us to use public restrooms without having to pay a toll or buy something. When the kids were little, this rest stop was essential to a successful trip.
When the Des Plaines Oasis was demolished, we were forced to use the truck stop in Marengo on our way to and fro Chicago. They have cheap gas, clean restrooms and you don’t have to pay a toll to exit or enter 90 but it’s somehow located too close and too far from home and our destinations. It wasn’t convenient but it is what we used. When we started going to this “pit stop,” I noticed the brown sign pointing the way to the train museum.
“Is that the train museum you’re always talking about?”
“Yes.”
***
I’ve lost count of how many times we stopped in Marengo to use the bathrooms. At least 100. And we’ve never once followed the brown sign. At some point, going to the train museum just seemed like work. And Marengo, I’m sure it’s a lovely town, but to us it’s where the toilets live. We don’t even call it Marengo. We call it “The Toilets.”
“Where are you right now?” I used to call Jesse when I knew he was on his way home from Chicago.
“Just passed The Toilets,” he’d answer. (Sometimes he called it “The Terlecks.”)
The Toilets = 40 minutes.
***
Now that the kids are older, we rarely stop at The Toilets in either direction but last week when I was driving Jesse to O’Hare, he said he needed to stop. As I drove toward the gas station, I saw the brown sign for the train museum.
“I can’t believe we never made it there,” I said.
“Maybe when we have grandkids,” he said.
***
Thanks for reading. Does your city have brown signs, too? -Connie
Witch-adjacent woman waits for Aldi to open during an ice storm. What fun!
Hike. I love hiking in northern Illinois. It doesn’t matter if I’m alone, with the Rockford Fringe, or with my family — it’s always marvelous. But I love hiking out of town (or state) even more. I frequently daydream about where I get to hike next.
Blog. It’s good writing practice and always takes me on new paths of truth. Blogging is like hiking for the mind.
Mushrooms. Foraging for choice mushrooms brings gladness to my heart every single time. I also love cooking ’em up!
Witchcraft. I started reading about witchcraft several years ago when a friend of mine asked me rather seriously, “Are you a witch?” I was like, “Uhhh, no….” He patiently pointed out that I love nature and the outdoors and gave off a certain vibe and should look into it. I don’t usually like being mansplained, but I trusted him enough to read up on the subject and very quickly understood what he was implying. Witchcraft isn’t as scary as it sounds and it’s really just a new way of paying attention to the environment and each other.
If you’re curious about“witching,” here’s something simple you can do: Pay attention to whatever wild animals you see this week. Notice which one you see the most. That animal is trying to tell you something. Google their spiritual meaning and see if you can make sense of the message. Example: If you see several hawks this week, that can mean you are angry about something and need to work through it.
Fasting. In the spring, I fast for 19 days in solidarity with my Baha’i and Baha’i-adjacent friends. I rarely see these friends anymore so this practice helps keep me in touch with them, at least spiritually. It is fun to think of them and pray for them.
Read Romance Novels. Here’s a link to some NPR-recommended romance novels. NPR also introduced me to Emily Henry and Abby Jimenez. I’ll admit I’m a little embarrassed whenever anyone catches me reading a romance novel but the truth is these books can be a lot of fun.
Aldi. I used to detest grocery shopping but a few years ago, I decided to give Aldi a try. My whole world brightened when I discovered this small, approachable store with self-checkout. Now I look forward to shopping. I only wish I thought cooking was fun.
Math. I wrote most of today’s blog when I was in the parking lot at Aldi, waiting for it to open. I don’t usually write on my phone, but I thought I’d give it a try. As such, I wasn’t paying technical attention to what I was writing, lost count and went over the “five item maximum.” I hope you don’t call the #bloganuary police on me!
Thanks for reading. I hope you had fun! -Connie
My first spore print! Another fun thing you can do for free. Place your mushroom “gills down” on a piece of paper and let it sit overnight. In the morning, the spores will have fallen onto the paper and you will be able to properly ID your mushroom AND you’ll have a lovely piece of art!
When I pop the kettle on, I make hot cocoa, not tea.
I fell asleep watching Call the Midwife last night. For those unfamiliar, the series follows the lives of several midwives and their community in London’s East End in the 1960s.
As I was drifting off, I heard a character call another character “pet.” I was half-asleep so I don’t remember who was calling who “pet.” All I remember is it was an adult calling another adult “pet.” It sounded something like this:
“Pop the kettle on, pet.”
“Okay, love.”
I’ve noticed the midwives issue a lot of nicknames. They do not discriminate. The call babies everything from “young sir” to “old bean.” They call old women everything from “sweetie” to “old thing.” They call women who’ve just given birth “brave girl” or “good girl” or “lass” or “precious.”
If I were to witness any of these “nickname moments” in real life, I’d be equal parts suspicious and pissed. But there’s something super special about the way the midwives do it — I listen for the nicknames and love every single one, including “pet.”
***
Why do you watch the telly when you’re trying to sleep, pet? Help me understand.
When my husband is out of town, I tend to sleep with the TV on. I like to watch / listen to dramatic television series that I think are perfectly written. Call the Midwife is one example. Mad Men is another. The Queen’s Gambit is also excellent. I was born in the 60s and am naturally drawn to the decade. Also, I cling to an absurd hope that listening to good television writing while I sleep will help me write better.
***
Why do you write this blog, pet? Help me understand.
I cling to an absurd hope that blogging will help me write better.
***
How do you feel about being called pet, pet? Help me understand.
In my imagination, I like it. In real life, I don’t. So I let the voice inside my head call me pet, but no probably one else.
***
Not a lot of time to write today. Thank you for reading. Do you like nicknames? -Connie
Many mothers, fathers and families say something along the lines of “Hi Baby!” to a baby long before it’s officially named or born. There are countless videos, tv shows and films that suggest this.
Example 1: The dad gently puts his ear to to his pregnant wife’s belly. He smiles with wonder and pulls away for a second. Then he’ll speak directly to the belly. “Hi Baby,” he says.
Example 2: Sometimes a toddler-aged big sister or big brother will pat the mother’s belly and sweetly say, “Baby.”‘
Example 3: At prenatal checkups, nurses, doctors and ultrasound technicians sometimes ask, “How’s Baby?”
***
“Baby” has Old English origins. Some argue that “baby” is imitative of the first words babies say: “Ba ba ba ba ba.”
Others argue that babies are gifts from heaven and that’s that.
People — and this is new information — are opinionated about babies.
***
My second name is Constance. My friends call me Connie.
Constance means steadfast and reliable. Connie means knowledgeable. I do my best.
***
When I was in high school my friend Raymond told me I should go by Constance.
“‘Connie’ sounds like a secretary’s name,” he said with disgust.
***
When I worked at Marshalls, my friend Andy used to call me Constance whenever my mood swung from cheerful to pissed.
“Constance is here,” she’d say. “Look out.”
***
When I worked at a Bruegger’s Bagel Bakery, a new hire asked me my name.
“Connie Ross,” I told her.
“Hmmm,” she said. “Nice round letters.”
I remember panicking a little shortly before I got married because “Connie Kuntz” doesn’t have nice round letters.
***
I’m sorry to say I do not remember the name of the gal who said my name had nice round letters. I am disappointed in myself. I should at least be able to remember if her letters were pointy.
I will say this: Many wonderful people have drifted into my life and improved it in nice, round ways. Life is amazing that way.
Thanks for reading. -Connie Kuntz (round and sharp letters)
When you subscribe, the post goes to your email and you don’t have to click anything. My blog is free, there are no ads.
Constance Kuntz 