Category: Motley Kruse

It’s not hard at all to kick back and get your nails done. And what you choose to have done to your nails conveys a message to the world around you. What will it be? Buff rimmed ovals just peeking over the edge of your fingertips? Vicious blood-red daggers? The Flojo? The Flojo is true nail art. Usually defined by nails of Guinness Book of World Records length, with long canoes curving down and forward, Flojo nails stop just short of describing a complete spiral. They can be any color. In fact to be a true Flojo, they should be many colors, perhaps even with good luck charms pierced through them. Women who wear the Flojo are sometimes regarded with horror or disbelief, as though they are crippling themselves by grooming their digits into uselessness. How can they type? How can they eat? How can they open car doors? What the supremely confident Flojo wearer says to the world is that she fully expects that you will peel her grapes and open her doors.

You can’t get the Flojo at, say, the Red Door Salon. Like most cutting–edge fashion, nails like this are born in the street. Lake Street to be specific. Nail salons thrive on practically every block down Lake Street, from Nicollet Avenue to West River Road. There’s Nail It To Me, Nails For You, and my old haunt, Do Me Nails. I got my falsies done there almost every other Saturday night for two years. I thought the name was charming, and I wanted to support the businesses in my old neighborhood. I always pronounced it with a lilting Irish brogue, thereby creating a double entendre, softening the vulgarity. It may be the polish–remover fumes talking, but the first time I walked into the salon, it felt like home. Cheap wood paneling and rec-room carpet. Television and radio blaring at the same time. Kids running around bugging their moms for a treat. There were neat rows of manicure stations, and spice racks loaded with varnish of every imaginable color. I couldn’t wait to take my place at a bench and get my nails fussed over.

Usually I preferred a short frosty blue tip. It’s an affordable luxury, running about 25 dollars every two weeks.

On my last trip there, I patiently waited my turn—contemplating a palm tree-themed Flojo. The door burst open to a large white woman with tight, angry cornrows—apparently a difficult regular customer—with a Flojo emergency. She held a family-sized bag of Doritos, from which she extracted handful after handful of corn chips, working them into her mouth as she complained. “I got my nails done yesterday,” she griped bitterly. Holding her chip hand up to the light, she bellowed, “I gotta date tonight and one of the mofo nails came off! You gotta get me a new one right now—(munch)—’cause I don’t know where the other one is.” The technicians at the bench squirmed. I’m both a nail-biter and a chip-eater myself, and it occurred to me what might have happened to that false fingernail.

Over the course of my life I have belonged to several fringe groups: The Lutheran Church, the Actors Guild, and the Depot Bar’s Wednesday night dart league to name a few. Membership has its privileges, whether it’s 25 cents off tap beers between nine and 11, full coverage on tooth capping, or salvation with a pancake breakfast four times a year. But the main thing for me is belonging to a group. I like the feeling of being a part of something. Back in high school, I once tried out for the cheerleading squad because it looked easy and they wore matching jackets. But I didn’t have “spirit” and was rooted out immediately.

Now I have joined a powerful confederation whose main objective is to change the way the world sees unit pricing. Like the Borg, I have assimilated. I scoff at your “convenience” stores. What are they but frou-frou luncheon meat boutiques? Shorter lines? How precious. Time is money and for my extra five minutes in line, I save an average of $75 a week. Bellyache all you want about suburban sprawl and the depersonalization of America, I freaking love Costco.

Yes, part of the deal is bulk purchasing. I have 60 frozen waffles choking my freezer right now, but so what? I have at least three children running around my house at any given time. Twice that many on weekends for sleepovers. If the waffles aren’t gone by November, I’ll make wind chimes out of them and give them out as holiday gifts. (Though usually I prefer to work with “found” waffles.)

As a parent, the colossal multi-paks make me feel safe and cozy all over. Looking at my 8,000-count industrial– sized jeroboam of Tylenol, I like knowing that my future grandchildren will never want for pain relief. I stopped short of buying the restaurant-style wagon wheel of toilet paper, but only just. If I could figure out how to jam it onto the tiny bathroom spool it would be mine.

The appeal of being prepared in the case of a waffle crisis or Tylenol embargo brings out the survivalist in me. Chest freezers and back up generators can’t be far behind. In fact, they sell them at Costco, and for a handsome discount too. Now, all I need is a hooded sweatshirt, some mirrored sunglasses, and a manifesto.

It’s not only the bargains that appeal to me, but the entire hoarding experience. It’s not shopping, it’s stockpiling. They have flatbed carts with all-terrain wheels — none of the quaint little Byerly’s “future customer” kiddie carts littering the aisles. This is serious business. If Junior can’t deadlift a 20-pound vacuum sack of Kalamata olives, he’s got to stay in the truck.

And I love how they make you flash your membership card on the way in and out of the compound. It creates a kind of sexy military-police urgency, like you’d better damn well get that 5-gallon drum of chocolate sauce in case you wake up in Russia tomorrow. You might be able to trade it for vodka.

But they have a liquor store at Costco too! Crates of it! Name brands! Piled to the 20-foot ceiling of a 3,000 square-foot warehouse room. The hooch annex is flanked by rolling salad bar-sized humidors that entomb several dozen brands of cigars. I poked around to see if there was a Costco whorehouse or firing range anywhere on the grounds, but maybe they saved those features for their Nevada location.

Right by the customer service desk there are stacks of glossy pamphlets advertising the Costco vehicle buying program and corporate memberships. I am merely an individual member, though I am thinking of incorporating this year, if it will net me a discount on an M1 Abrams Tank in stylish Desert Sand. I can park it behind my poetry-writing shack. Also by the service desk are the Costco sunny vacation destination information sheets. I haven’t had a real vacation for years, but with all the moolah I’m saving on cigars and chocolate sauce, I might be able to swing a four-night stay in Mexico. If I really wanted to be thrifty, I could see if Costco has an organ harvesting division. I’ve got two kidneys. I could jettison one and pay for the whole trip. I only need one for drinking Margaritas and napping in the sun. And if the operation goes wrong, they can bury me in my chest freezer and invite my fellow members over to the memorial for waffles and an all night manifesto slam.

Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian. Send email to mscolleenkruse@hotmail.com

Listen up folks. Bathing suit season is upon us. We have very little time. As the temperature rises, the threat of exposure increases. Soon we will be obliged to reveal the acres of tender flesh we have been farming lo these past seven months. And ready or not, after Memorial Day, we will hit the sand in jiggling herds wearing little more than sun block and a self-conscious smirk.

I am a solid citizen. A size 12. I tip the scales at about a buck-fifty. I left behind the idea that I needed to be rail thin a long time ago. Some might call me full-bodied, I say I’m Midwestern. That way it sounds reassuring, like something good to hang onto, not something to try to hide. My weight is substantial, but not unhealthy. It looks good on me. I have places to go and things to eat and I can’t be bothered with someone else’s idea of beauty. When I step out of the shower and look in the mirror, I like what I see.

It’s when I have to stuff my goodies into one square foot of patterned spandex and traipse out in public that the trouble starts. With a swimsuit, there are all sorts of problems. I have yet to find a suit bottom that stays put. Even the new boy-cut surfer shorts that are all the rage. I can’t take five steps from beach blanket to shore without making the entire back of my suit disappear. Alacazam and Presto! It’s my special magic trick. I could wear a thong, but something in my working-class DNA prevents me from spending 20 bucks on an item of clothing you can hardly see. I’d rather draw one on with a Sharpie.

Another concern with the change of season is sun exposure. Have you ever read all the precautions that dermatologists want you to take before you step out into the great outdoors? Is it my imagination or does the list get longer every year? Sun block, check. Big hat, check. Sunglasses, check. Lip balm, check. You can still see a few defiant souls flash-frying themselves here and there, around the lakes, in their yards, going for that St. Tropez glow. But until “Fruit Leather” becomes a sought-after skin texture, I’ll just be sitting over there, under that tree, wearing my Standard Government Issue anti-gamma ray poncho and boots.

Actually, for the last couple of years, I have been involved in several self-tanning accidents. I have worked my way through every brand of bronzer; from high-end cosmetic counter green-tea infused cinnamon butters, to discount chain-store brand paste, with the same results. I follow the directions, exfoliate, moisturize, and smooth on using quick upward strokes, allowing time to dry thoroughly before putting clothes back on. Golden, sun-kissed color will appear two to three hours after application. Repeat as necessary every two to three days to maintain color. Hmmph. I have created a new art form in tan lines. The first time, I gave myself my very own pinstriped birthday suit. The second time? Handprint-sized blotches appeared that looked like severe bruising under the fluorescent lights at Cub. I finally figured out a system, though: several applications over an intensive 48-hour period where I remain naked (shades pulled) in my house, standing in front of the TV holding my arms out as each application dries. Repeat every other week when the kids are gone visiting Dad.

While I’m drying, I worry. The thing about summer approaching is that the kids will be out of school and they will require attention. My kids, ages 11 and 14, are in that wondrous age when they are too old to have babysitters, yet too young to be left at home alone for any length of time. Without the stabilizing influence of a regimented school day, the ever-present threat of boredom looms.

Every year at this time, I start the summer with hopeful thoughts of all the free activities the kids and I will partake in. Park festivals where there are giant puppets and dancers! Bi-weekly jaunts to the public library for mind-enriching literature! Evening bike rides to the rose garden where we will breathe deep the perfume of night-blooming varieties. Homemade sandwiches enjoyed while listening to street musicians busking for change. In none of these scenarios do I imagine unlimited-ride wristbands, or steady visits to Taco Bell. I don’t envision children who are forced to spend an extra 10 hours a day in close proximity renegotiating the terms of their relationship with purple-nurples and hurts-donits. I don’t think of rainy days and the struggle for control over the TV clicker. No, I dream of 10,000 lakes, and a suit bottom that never rides up.

Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian. Email her: mscolleenkruse@hotmail.com

Hey, I’m luxury-minded. I understand the finer things in life. Pleasures can be simple, like a dish-soap bubble bath, for instance. Quiet time to read, perhaps. The fetal position.
Life’s joy can be measured in things that cost big, too. Like telling someone what you really think, or buying produce at Lund’s in April. I understand value. And I understand that sometimes you’ve got to spend if you want to save. So it was with this attitude that I walked into the car dealership looking to buy myself a new, or even pre-owned car.

Right out of the gate, the guy had my number: Mom. Two kids. Dog. Needs to buy a car because the old one is wrapped around a tree on Minnehaha Parkway after skidding on a patch of ice. He steers me to the SUVs because, presumably, I need a space shuttle to haul my purse around. He tells me that women have single-handedly made the SUV the most popular vehicle in America because they feel safer while driving them. I climbed into a floor model. I admit, sitting up so high in the saddle was a bit of a thrill. Why, I could buy a smart green uniform, install a coin counter by the passenger door, and start a route up and down Lake Street for beer money.

One thing stuck with me—the safety issue. Searching for “safe” cars on the internet, I saw a whole new twist on the luxury vehicle: the armored sedan. Cadillac designed them with politicians in mind, and other people who inspire random acts of violence. But now they are the new must-have extravagance for post-9/11 conspicuous consumers. You know, for those times when your Humvee is just too sporty. The sedan has run-flat tires, bullet-resistant windows, and a modified chassis to support the extra weight of the car. I couldn’t help thinking that a few features are missing. I mean, if you have defense, you’ve got to have offense. How about a flipping wedge and whirling titanium juicer blades? Of course, the smashing mallet would be optional, along with the butt-warmers in the winter package.

How safe do I need to be? Say I make it through gunplay, shrapnel, and a high-speed chase. What happens when I have to get out of the car for lunch? Maybe I can hire Tom Ridge to wash my salad greens. The meek might not inherit the earth, but as far as I can tell, they have access to just about everything you are likely to put into your mouth. And if anybody starts doing sustained background checks on entry-level, minimum-wage workers, forget it. There won’t be enough qualified personnel to staff a Starbucks.

I ended up buying a younger version of the same car I wrecked. A stationwagon. I can fit my purse in it, and I feel secure knowing that other motorists and pedestrians will never suspect me of spending more for less. Some people can buy the illusion of safety. The rest of us buckle up.

Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian. Send safety recommendations by email to mscolleenkruse@hotmail.com

The problem with being a mother is that the definition of success is too damned narrow. You’re either a good mother, or a bad mother. No in-betweens, no wiggle room. If we can accept gray areas in politics and potlucks, why not parenting? I say this, of course, as I bury another body in the backyard. Under cover of darkness, before my daughter gets home from the weekend away at her dad’s house. I don’t know what I’ll say when she gets here, I don’t know what would make a difference. As soon as she climbs the stairs to her room, she’ll know. Her screams will fill the house. She’ll run down to me, stupid in her grief, tears in her eyes. She’ll desperately cry, “Where is he? What did you do to Pongo?” She’ll collapse and she’ll moan and repeat these questions over and over again, even though she knows the answer. I, her mother, have killed again.

I didn’t mean to! It was an accident! How many times can something happen before accident turns into “on purpose”? Three times? Four? Under my watch, no less than six beloved creatures—animal companions, I guess you call them—have died needlessly. This time, the bird in question, Pongo, waited in vain for his water dish to be filled. I missed one day, and his beak dried shut. I swabbed it with a Q-tip dipped in olive oil, whispering prayers to St. Martin. Pongo seemed resigned to his fate, lying on his side, eyes blinking, until they closed for good.

In my defense, I’d like to note here that we have both a dog and a cat, which are thriving. I just can’t be responsible for pets that live in cages, bowls, or tanks. That’s where I get into trouble. If I forget to put water in the dog dish, he’ll belly up to the toilet like it’s happy hour at T.G.I. Fridays. If I forget to change the cat litter, she’ll poop in my shoes. Sometimes, she does this anyway to let me know who’s boss.

There were fish once, I remember, that were purchased for a child recovering from strep throat. Bright and soothing, they floated, dipped, and swirled through their underwater jungle gym of glow-in-the-dark skulls and treasure chests, surfacing for just a pinch of protein flakes, measured out by the child who loved them. Their water dimmed, until a cleaning couldn’t be put off. As the child slept, I carried the tank into the kitchen, scooped out the fish, and put them into a large mixing bowl full of treated water. I emptied the dirty tank, scrubbed it, and carefully replaced the skulls and treasure chests. I put the drops in the tank. Then I refilled it using water from the hot tap rather than the cold, realizing my mistake seconds after I tossed the fish back in. It was after midnight, when a lot of those crappy household tasks get underway in the home of a single mother. I sat on the counter, patting myself on the back for a dirty job well done, watching them swim furiously for a couple of moments. Until I saw the steam rising from the tank. I plunged my hands into the tank, but it was too late. I flushed their tiny bodies down the pipes and made up a half-baked story the next day. But everybody knew.

There was a time when I thought digital pets might be the answer, but it’s not the same. When my daughter gets home tonight, my only recourse is to tell her the truth, and hope to God the Buddhists are wrong.

Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian who knows how to deal with stalkers, so don’t even try.