Sabrina: So I was talking with Fred the other day.
Me: Remind me who Fred is again?
Sabrina: He's like the boy version of me, the simpleminded version.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
A Double Mother What?
Sabrina just came home from camp. Here's what she learned:
1. What elephant seals look like close up.
2. How to fall down sand dunes.
3. How to fall in tide pools.
4. How to kiss a banana slug.
5. How to call people "super wieners."
5. A rap about animal poop, which she has graciously taught to the whole family.
6. A seal joke where the punch line was "Double mother-suckler."
Man, camp was never that good when I was a kid.
1. What elephant seals look like close up.
2. How to fall down sand dunes.
3. How to fall in tide pools.
4. How to kiss a banana slug.
5. How to call people "super wieners."
5. A rap about animal poop, which she has graciously taught to the whole family.
6. A seal joke where the punch line was "Double mother-suckler."
Man, camp was never that good when I was a kid.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Anybody Want to Come Over for Dinner?
So the other night, after a really hard week, David said, "Hey, why don't I take the kids out and give you a quiet evening tonight?" My response was to immediately shove them out the door. I worked for a while, puttered around the house, and eventually decided that perhaps I was hungry. I poked around in the pantry. Kraft macaroni and cheese sounded as good as anything, and easy to make to boot, so I started boiling the macaroni.
The macaroni was almost done, and I went to gather the milk and butter . . . only to find that somebody had used up the last of the milk and not told me. Argh! I hate it when they do that. By this time, I was getting really hungry. And I was too tired to go to the store. What's a girl to do?
Well, I've watched the Food Network. They've told me preparing food is not rocket science. Try new things, make substitutions! It will work, trust us! So although improvising is not in my nature, being spontaneous won out over going to the grocery store.
I looked around the kitchen and the refrigerator. What could work as a substitution for milk? My eye spied a red can sitting on the top shelf. That's it! Reddi Wip! That's sort of like milk, right? I could just mix in a little water to make it more runny. So that's what I did. I squirted out some Reddi Wip, mixed in some water, and voila, a milk-like substance. And there you have it, a little ingenuity and even the most difficult kitchen problem can be solved.
Only, it didn't taste so good. Who would have guessed that mixing not-milk with not-cheese would be not-edible? I tried to valiantly eat my way through one small bowl, but just couldn't do it. I gave up and went for the wine, the expensive bottle. At this point I figured I deserved it.
As I was sitting there, drowning my Reddi Wip sorrows in a very nice Zinfandel, David came back with the kids. The first words out of my mouth were, "It would really be nice if people told me when we run out of essential items like milk." He got a panicked look in his eye and said, "You didn't go the store did you?" This seemed an oddly out of proportion response, but I replied that no, I hadn't. He heaved a huge sigh of relief and held up his arms from which dangled two new gallons of milk.
"Man," I said, "that would have been useful an hour ago." He asked me why. I told him that I was in the process of making mac 'n cheese only to find out I didn't have a key ingredient. So David logically said, "Oh, so you had to use water, huh?" I said no, of course not. Water makes it too runny. Looking puzzled he asked me how I made it then. "Well, I mixed Reddi Wip and water, of course, to make milk." He looked horrified and, looking at the glass of wine in my hand, said, "Were you drinking when you did that?" I told him that unfortunately, no, I was just using the wine to make me feel better. He shook his head and proceeded to unpack the rest of the groceries he had picked up.
The next evening, the kids asked for some ice cream after dinner. David gave them a scoop each and went to the fridge to pull out the Reddi Wip to put on top. He looked at the can, looked at me, looked at the can again. Then he said, somewhat accusingly, "Is this the can you used last night?" I said I didn't know. Were there any other cans in the fridge? He looked and said no. So I told him that yes, that was indeed the can I used. And that's when I found out, as if the fact that I had used Reddi Wip was not bad enough already, that particular can had an expiration date of January 2008.
The macaroni was almost done, and I went to gather the milk and butter . . . only to find that somebody had used up the last of the milk and not told me. Argh! I hate it when they do that. By this time, I was getting really hungry. And I was too tired to go to the store. What's a girl to do?
Well, I've watched the Food Network. They've told me preparing food is not rocket science. Try new things, make substitutions! It will work, trust us! So although improvising is not in my nature, being spontaneous won out over going to the grocery store.
I looked around the kitchen and the refrigerator. What could work as a substitution for milk? My eye spied a red can sitting on the top shelf. That's it! Reddi Wip! That's sort of like milk, right? I could just mix in a little water to make it more runny. So that's what I did. I squirted out some Reddi Wip, mixed in some water, and voila, a milk-like substance. And there you have it, a little ingenuity and even the most difficult kitchen problem can be solved.
Only, it didn't taste so good. Who would have guessed that mixing not-milk with not-cheese would be not-edible? I tried to valiantly eat my way through one small bowl, but just couldn't do it. I gave up and went for the wine, the expensive bottle. At this point I figured I deserved it.
As I was sitting there, drowning my Reddi Wip sorrows in a very nice Zinfandel, David came back with the kids. The first words out of my mouth were, "It would really be nice if people told me when we run out of essential items like milk." He got a panicked look in his eye and said, "You didn't go the store did you?" This seemed an oddly out of proportion response, but I replied that no, I hadn't. He heaved a huge sigh of relief and held up his arms from which dangled two new gallons of milk.
"Man," I said, "that would have been useful an hour ago." He asked me why. I told him that I was in the process of making mac 'n cheese only to find out I didn't have a key ingredient. So David logically said, "Oh, so you had to use water, huh?" I said no, of course not. Water makes it too runny. Looking puzzled he asked me how I made it then. "Well, I mixed Reddi Wip and water, of course, to make milk." He looked horrified and, looking at the glass of wine in my hand, said, "Were you drinking when you did that?" I told him that unfortunately, no, I was just using the wine to make me feel better. He shook his head and proceeded to unpack the rest of the groceries he had picked up.
The next evening, the kids asked for some ice cream after dinner. David gave them a scoop each and went to the fridge to pull out the Reddi Wip to put on top. He looked at the can, looked at me, looked at the can again. Then he said, somewhat accusingly, "Is this the can you used last night?" I said I didn't know. Were there any other cans in the fridge? He looked and said no. So I told him that yes, that was indeed the can I used. And that's when I found out, as if the fact that I had used Reddi Wip was not bad enough already, that particular can had an expiration date of January 2008.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Food Has Taste
When I was younger, I just wasn't interested in food. I had severe allergies that seriously impaired my sense of smell. Did you know that your sense of taste is tied to your sense of smell? Well, it is. And if you don't smell, you don't taste much. I didn't even know that milk actually had a taste until I was 16. Up until that point it seemed no different to me than water, other than the color, of course.
As a consequence, I never really liked to cook. But after my mother went back to work, and I got old enough, I was enlisted to help make meals for the family once in a while. I had exactly two meals in my repertoire: chicken and rice or goulash. If I was on deck to cook, you could be certain it was one of those two meals. What can I say? Those two meals were good enough for me, so they were good enough for my family. I couldn't be bothered to learn how to cook anything else.
But as I got older, and allergy medication got better, my nose started to clear up. I discovered a whole new world. Food had taste! And lo, it was good! I still wasn't interested in cooking, though. David, who was the poster child for the picky eater, suffered a lot during our first few years of marriage. I didn't care. If he wanted something different than what I was making (I still only had two dishes, see above), he could damn well make it himself.
But then we moved to Japan. This changed things in a couple of ways. First, David slowly lost his picky eating habits. After you've had to eat live sea creatures or raw horse, all of a sudden pasta doesn't look so bad.
Second, we were sent on a work exchange program, not the usual luxurious package. This meant that we had to live among the natives, and not in the ultra-expensive expatriate communities. There were no American restaurants or fast food places anywhere near our apartment. There was a McDonalds a 20-minute walk from our place, but you have to really want McDonalds to walk that far. And I didn't. Besides, you can't eat McDonalds every day.
I wasn't allowed a work visa, and I had nothing but time on my hands, so I subscribed to Bon Appetit and started learning how to cook. I loved thumbing through cookbooks and looking at recipes (still do, in fact), and I turned myself into a respectable chef. But if the truth were told, I still don't really enjoy cooking all that much. I just like to salivate over all the delicious recipes and wish that I had my own private chef.
Nevertheless, when I cook nowadays -- which happens far more often than I would like it to; what are these people thinking, expecting a meal every evening? -- at least my family doesn't have to eat goulash every night.
As a consequence, I never really liked to cook. But after my mother went back to work, and I got old enough, I was enlisted to help make meals for the family once in a while. I had exactly two meals in my repertoire: chicken and rice or goulash. If I was on deck to cook, you could be certain it was one of those two meals. What can I say? Those two meals were good enough for me, so they were good enough for my family. I couldn't be bothered to learn how to cook anything else.
But as I got older, and allergy medication got better, my nose started to clear up. I discovered a whole new world. Food had taste! And lo, it was good! I still wasn't interested in cooking, though. David, who was the poster child for the picky eater, suffered a lot during our first few years of marriage. I didn't care. If he wanted something different than what I was making (I still only had two dishes, see above), he could damn well make it himself.
But then we moved to Japan. This changed things in a couple of ways. First, David slowly lost his picky eating habits. After you've had to eat live sea creatures or raw horse, all of a sudden pasta doesn't look so bad.
Second, we were sent on a work exchange program, not the usual luxurious package. This meant that we had to live among the natives, and not in the ultra-expensive expatriate communities. There were no American restaurants or fast food places anywhere near our apartment. There was a McDonalds a 20-minute walk from our place, but you have to really want McDonalds to walk that far. And I didn't. Besides, you can't eat McDonalds every day.
I wasn't allowed a work visa, and I had nothing but time on my hands, so I subscribed to Bon Appetit and started learning how to cook. I loved thumbing through cookbooks and looking at recipes (still do, in fact), and I turned myself into a respectable chef. But if the truth were told, I still don't really enjoy cooking all that much. I just like to salivate over all the delicious recipes and wish that I had my own private chef.
Nevertheless, when I cook nowadays -- which happens far more often than I would like it to; what are these people thinking, expecting a meal every evening? -- at least my family doesn't have to eat goulash every night.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A Minor Complaint
This is my study. I work from home. But I have no designated room that is all mine, with a door, and a lock, and soundproofed walls. It's merely an open room at the top of our stairs. Unfortunately, this room is not mine alone.
The other people in my family don't need this room. They all have their very own rooms with their very own space to dump their very own stuff. But for some reason, they've decided that my open space is exactly the right place to put their stuff. Books are never put away, but thrown in the general vicinity of the bookshelves so it looks like the poor shelves had a nasty case of indigestion and are now vomiting books. That telescope? Hasn't been used since 1994. This room is also the repository for all cords that cannot be thrown away -- we might need them someday! -- electronics no longer used, or used but then forgotten. That big TV in the corner of the picture? I now have to vault over that to even get to my desk to work.
Ninety-nine point nine percent of this crap is not mine. In fact, I will tell you right now that nothing in that picture is mine. David agrees and has generously said 90.2 percent of the crap is his. The kids take up the other 9.7 percent. Every two or three months I go through with a big garbage bag, throwing things away, giving Tums to the bookshelves, and neatly stacking everything that I know if I throw it away, David will kill me. And yet, within days, hour sometimes, it looks like this again.
Sometimes life just isn't fair.
Friday, April 16, 2010
You Can Call Me Al
I hate nicknames, as those of you who are now missing limbs after making the mistake of calling me Jenny well know. I am Jennifer, NOT Jenny. Those are two completely different names in my mind, conjuring up images of completely different people. I was very clear about this difference even from the earliest age when I would leave bite marks on the legs of people foolish enough to call me Jenny. No, I am Jennifer, and only Jennifer, thank you very much. Except for a brief period of time in high school when, after I caught a football kicked into the end zone with my face, I became known as Wilson.
I come by this trait honestly. My grandmother, who was given the good southern name of Lyddie Belle, would purse her lips and get a steely glint in her eye if anyone dared to call her Lyddie. In fact, one time when called for jury duty, she actually just sat and said nothing as the court clerk called over and over, "Lyddie? Lyddie Sedivy?" When it finally came to light that she was actually in the courtroom, my grandmother was asked why she didn't respond when her name was called. Her reply? "I thought you were calling somebody else." Right. As if there was even a remote possibility that there was another Lyddie Sedivy in the world, let alone one called for jury duty at the exact same time in the extremely small town she lived in. She was excused pretty quickly from jury duty after that.
This hostility toward nicknames was not improved after I married and met new relative after new relative with the strangest names. I figured either this family had a long and abiding love affair with nicknames, or there were some really sadistic parents. There was a Rooster and a Scooby, a Blake, Putty. David and his sister were known by Jake and Elwood.
Even I didn't escape from this weird obsession to call people something other than their given name. Although I must have intimidated my new family just the tiniest bit with my death glares and threats of bodily harm, because I walked away with Jen. So, I guess I am wrong in what I tell my children. Sometimes you CAN solve things with violence, or at least the threat of it.
But as you might imagine, nicknames, or the lack thereof, played a big part in my thinking when trying to choose a name for my first child (for all my children actually). My husband's family had taught me that whether or not you want a nickname, you could very well end up with one. So in addition to looking at names, I looked at all possible permutations of what that name could become.
Veronica? No, I hate Nicky, or Nikki, or Nyquie. And Ronnie was definitely out of the question. Nicole? Same problem as Veronica. Deborah? Nope. Debbie was not a name I cared for. Isabel? Ick, someone would call her Izzy. Vanessa? That might work since forming a nickname out of that would be difficult. However, it was possible, and Van (yes, my girl is built like a large vehicle) or Nessie (visions of a mythical Scottish creature) didn't make me happy. (And yes, I know these are all girls' names. Girls' names are harder than boys.)
This fixation of mine was not helped out by the fact that David would suddenly make pronouncements such as, "I don't like any names that start with L . . . or D." Any talk of possible names would quickly go downhill from there until we were throwing out names that we thought were really more suited for pet cows, names like Florine, Bertha, Eunice, or Studebaker (Stoody for short).
Until one day near the end of my pregnancy I threw the big book of baby names at David's head and said, "Look through that. Pick out any names that don't completely disgust you. I'll do the same, and we'll compare lists." We both came back with very short lists. Apparently there are lot of names that completely disgust us.
However, even with the short lists there was one name that matched . . . Sabrina. It had a lot going for it, not least of which it was a name we both liked. It was not too common, not too unique. And it had the added bonus of it being very hard to make a nickname out of. Woohoo! We had found a winner, folks.
Only, life hasn't worked out the way I planned. It turns out you can make a nickname out of Sabrina -- Bina. A name that didn't even cross my mind when I was contemplating Sabrina as the name for our child. But she's become our Bina Bear. And when Bina gets too long to say, we shorten it to Beans.
Once we started using Bina, I only meant for it to be an endearment. But as my mother well knows, once you give a name to your child, it's theirs to keep. They do with it what they wish, and they can be rather adamant about making their wishes known. Sabrina has apparently decided that she likes Bina as a nickname. She has wavered between private and public usage of it for a year now. Sometimes only her family and most intimate friends are allowed to call her Bina. Other times, anybody is allowed. Right now it's up for public usage. At least it's better than Stoody.
I come by this trait honestly. My grandmother, who was given the good southern name of Lyddie Belle, would purse her lips and get a steely glint in her eye if anyone dared to call her Lyddie. In fact, one time when called for jury duty, she actually just sat and said nothing as the court clerk called over and over, "Lyddie? Lyddie Sedivy?" When it finally came to light that she was actually in the courtroom, my grandmother was asked why she didn't respond when her name was called. Her reply? "I thought you were calling somebody else." Right. As if there was even a remote possibility that there was another Lyddie Sedivy in the world, let alone one called for jury duty at the exact same time in the extremely small town she lived in. She was excused pretty quickly from jury duty after that.
This hostility toward nicknames was not improved after I married and met new relative after new relative with the strangest names. I figured either this family had a long and abiding love affair with nicknames, or there were some really sadistic parents. There was a Rooster and a Scooby, a Blake, Putty. David and his sister were known by Jake and Elwood.
Even I didn't escape from this weird obsession to call people something other than their given name. Although I must have intimidated my new family just the tiniest bit with my death glares and threats of bodily harm, because I walked away with Jen. So, I guess I am wrong in what I tell my children. Sometimes you CAN solve things with violence, or at least the threat of it.
But as you might imagine, nicknames, or the lack thereof, played a big part in my thinking when trying to choose a name for my first child (for all my children actually). My husband's family had taught me that whether or not you want a nickname, you could very well end up with one. So in addition to looking at names, I looked at all possible permutations of what that name could become.
Veronica? No, I hate Nicky, or Nikki, or Nyquie. And Ronnie was definitely out of the question. Nicole? Same problem as Veronica. Deborah? Nope. Debbie was not a name I cared for. Isabel? Ick, someone would call her Izzy. Vanessa? That might work since forming a nickname out of that would be difficult. However, it was possible, and Van (yes, my girl is built like a large vehicle) or Nessie (visions of a mythical Scottish creature) didn't make me happy. (And yes, I know these are all girls' names. Girls' names are harder than boys.)
This fixation of mine was not helped out by the fact that David would suddenly make pronouncements such as, "I don't like any names that start with L . . . or D." Any talk of possible names would quickly go downhill from there until we were throwing out names that we thought were really more suited for pet cows, names like Florine, Bertha, Eunice, or Studebaker (Stoody for short).
Until one day near the end of my pregnancy I threw the big book of baby names at David's head and said, "Look through that. Pick out any names that don't completely disgust you. I'll do the same, and we'll compare lists." We both came back with very short lists. Apparently there are lot of names that completely disgust us.
However, even with the short lists there was one name that matched . . . Sabrina. It had a lot going for it, not least of which it was a name we both liked. It was not too common, not too unique. And it had the added bonus of it being very hard to make a nickname out of. Woohoo! We had found a winner, folks.
Only, life hasn't worked out the way I planned. It turns out you can make a nickname out of Sabrina -- Bina. A name that didn't even cross my mind when I was contemplating Sabrina as the name for our child. But she's become our Bina Bear. And when Bina gets too long to say, we shorten it to Beans.
Once we started using Bina, I only meant for it to be an endearment. But as my mother well knows, once you give a name to your child, it's theirs to keep. They do with it what they wish, and they can be rather adamant about making their wishes known. Sabrina has apparently decided that she likes Bina as a nickname. She has wavered between private and public usage of it for a year now. Sometimes only her family and most intimate friends are allowed to call her Bina. Other times, anybody is allowed. Right now it's up for public usage. At least it's better than Stoody.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Europe 2010 Update
I walked almost six miles today, on hills, in one hour and forty-five minutes. And this was after walking eight miles over the last two days, also on hills. That's pretty good for the girl who is always looking for an available pillow. I'm seriously having trouble imagining how a six-mile hike can take three times that long unless we're scaling rock faces. So I'm guessing the estimated time in our guidebook is based on how fast granny with her walker can complete the hike.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Europe 2010, or My Husband is Trying to Kill Me
I married into a family of world travelers. There is nothing they like better than to be taking a trip, planning a trip, thinking about travel. The "where" is almost unimportant as long as there is somewhere to go and explore. This potentially could have been a real problem for me. Remember, I'm the girl who hated going away to a weeklong summer camp a mere 50 miles away from my home. I used to think California was a foreign country (they speak other languages at Disneyland). I'm the girl who applied for the foreign exchange program in high school, at the encouragement of my parents, only to completely blow the final interview on purpose because I was afraid I actually might be chosen, and oh, my God, what would I do IF I HAD TO LIVE ABROAD FOR SIX MONTHS?
But now that I'm all grown up, the travel bug has bit me, too. I still get anxious when getting ready for a trip, because you never know what could happen, and if you've never been there, how do you know there aren't bears (I've been camping), and the control freak in me doesn't really like all that uncertainty. But I have found the joys of travel far outweigh some of the worries that I may have.
Early in our marriage, we decided to plan a trip to Europe. Just like a military operation, we gave this plan a name, EUROPE 2000, complete with hand gestures (think of some variation of "jazz hands" here). Seeing as how that gave us about six or seven years to plan and save, we figured that was a reasonable goal. However, we were young and poor, and life got in the way, and EUROPE 2000 turned into EUROPE 2001, then EUROPE 2003, and eventually, EUROPE, someday, maybe.
Well, that day has finally arrived! For Christmas, David booked us a walking tour of the Maritime Alps. We're going in May. From the brief description in the brochure, it sounds like a fabulous trip. We will walk a few miles every day between bed and breakfasts, enjoying scenery and hopefully finding wineries that will just happen to be serving up samples of their wares. Our luggage will magically appear at our new destination at the end of each day. And the trip finishes on the French Riviera. What's not to like?
Now, I'm not a terribly athletic person. My general attitude being why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sit? And why sit when laying down with a pillow is just so much more comfortable? But strolling through the French countryside sounds fabulous. How hard could it be? Still, I thought it would be prudent to start walking fairly regularly. So now I walk most days of the week, even if the walk is only to the nearest Starbucks. I've been feeling fairly proud of myself. I even walk hills whenever I can find them. Nothing can stop me now!
That is until we received our walking packet in the mail the other day. Now I am terrified. I just know I am going to die in the mountains of France. Besides seeing topographical maps -- which I don't really understand, but know enough to guess that lots of lines very, very close together is not a good thing -- I have never seen such detailed instructions for a trip. Instructions on what to wear, what to bring, what to avoid. Watch for snakes (most of them are not poisonous) and badgers (are those French bears?)! Bring a compass! Don't bring a GPS! Maps of southern France for GPS are notoriously inaccurate and you could end up walking off a cliff! Wear sturdy hiking shoes! Carry a hiking pole! Be prepared to ford streams, or ford fjords, or something! (What????) Allow a minimum of six to nine hours a day for walking time!
Wait a minute, six to nine hours?? The mileage per day is only six to eight miles, with the longest day being 11 miles. Having walked four miles of grueling hills today in just over an hour, I am wondering exactly what kind of walking we're actually going to be doing on this trip. It sounds like the tour company is anticipating you will only be able to cover a mile to a mile and a half an hour. That's not strolling speed, that's machete-through-the-jungle speed. So what are we going to be doing? I didn't see in the instructions that I needed to bring crampons and pitons. You won't find me rock climbing. I can barely walk with my coffee in hand.
But we're committed to going now. There's no turning back due to a little thing called non-refundable tickets. I guess I had better learn how to say, "Can you carry me to the nearest winery?" in French.
But now that I'm all grown up, the travel bug has bit me, too. I still get anxious when getting ready for a trip, because you never know what could happen, and if you've never been there, how do you know there aren't bears (I've been camping), and the control freak in me doesn't really like all that uncertainty. But I have found the joys of travel far outweigh some of the worries that I may have.
Early in our marriage, we decided to plan a trip to Europe. Just like a military operation, we gave this plan a name, EUROPE 2000, complete with hand gestures (think of some variation of "jazz hands" here). Seeing as how that gave us about six or seven years to plan and save, we figured that was a reasonable goal. However, we were young and poor, and life got in the way, and EUROPE 2000 turned into EUROPE 2001, then EUROPE 2003, and eventually, EUROPE, someday, maybe.
Well, that day has finally arrived! For Christmas, David booked us a walking tour of the Maritime Alps. We're going in May. From the brief description in the brochure, it sounds like a fabulous trip. We will walk a few miles every day between bed and breakfasts, enjoying scenery and hopefully finding wineries that will just happen to be serving up samples of their wares. Our luggage will magically appear at our new destination at the end of each day. And the trip finishes on the French Riviera. What's not to like?
Now, I'm not a terribly athletic person. My general attitude being why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sit? And why sit when laying down with a pillow is just so much more comfortable? But strolling through the French countryside sounds fabulous. How hard could it be? Still, I thought it would be prudent to start walking fairly regularly. So now I walk most days of the week, even if the walk is only to the nearest Starbucks. I've been feeling fairly proud of myself. I even walk hills whenever I can find them. Nothing can stop me now!
That is until we received our walking packet in the mail the other day. Now I am terrified. I just know I am going to die in the mountains of France. Besides seeing topographical maps -- which I don't really understand, but know enough to guess that lots of lines very, very close together is not a good thing -- I have never seen such detailed instructions for a trip. Instructions on what to wear, what to bring, what to avoid. Watch for snakes (most of them are not poisonous) and badgers (are those French bears?)! Bring a compass! Don't bring a GPS! Maps of southern France for GPS are notoriously inaccurate and you could end up walking off a cliff! Wear sturdy hiking shoes! Carry a hiking pole! Be prepared to ford streams, or ford fjords, or something! (What????) Allow a minimum of six to nine hours a day for walking time!
Wait a minute, six to nine hours?? The mileage per day is only six to eight miles, with the longest day being 11 miles. Having walked four miles of grueling hills today in just over an hour, I am wondering exactly what kind of walking we're actually going to be doing on this trip. It sounds like the tour company is anticipating you will only be able to cover a mile to a mile and a half an hour. That's not strolling speed, that's machete-through-the-jungle speed. So what are we going to be doing? I didn't see in the instructions that I needed to bring crampons and pitons. You won't find me rock climbing. I can barely walk with my coffee in hand.
But we're committed to going now. There's no turning back due to a little thing called non-refundable tickets. I guess I had better learn how to say, "Can you carry me to the nearest winery?" in French.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
A Good Deal
Occasionally, my husband has moments of brilliance. I wrote about one instance here. Another area where he has excelled lately has been gift-giving. However, gift-giving was not always his forte. In fact, for a while after we had kids, he pretty much sucked at it.
One year David missed first my birthday and then Mother's Day. Could it have been worse? Perhaps. At least he didn't remember my special day by giving me a Dustbuster for my birthday like my dad did for my mom one year. I believe my dad's still paying for that one. However, I was still pretty angry at being forgotten.
As payback I decided to treat myself to a $150 pair of shoes, hoping that would jar him into putting some thought into presents for me instead of letting me go wild with our credit card. How passive-aggressive of me. Unfortunately, the plan backfired since rather than being appalled that I had dropped that much money on something as frivolous as shoes, he seemed relieved I had taken care of the matter myself. I had a fabulous pair of shoes, but not what I really wanted, which was my husband thinking about me and buying a gift himself.
So, we had a little come-to-Jesus talk. Our "talk" went something like this.
Me: We need to have a talk. (The surest way to strike fear in any man's heart.)
D: Uh-oh.
Me: You do realize that you totally missed Mother's Day, right?
D: I did?
Me: And that's after you missed my birthday earlier in the year.
D: Uh --
Me: You understand that by default, meaning that of the two us I am the only one who cares enough to think about it, I have been placed in charge of gift-giving in this family, right?
D: Sure, I guess so.
Me: There's no guess about it. I take care of Christmas, birthdays, Mother's Day, and Father's Day for both sides of the family.
D: Okay. (Tries hard to look disappointed and remorseful, but I see him smirking.)
Me: But I don't want to take care of gifts for myself, too. Another missed occasion will not make me a happy camper. And I don't think you want to see that. I believe you remember what happened the last time I was not a happy camper.
D: (Now with a look of terror in his eyes) Yes, I mean, no, I mean --
Me: So here's how it's going to work. You will buy presents for me three times a year: my birthday, Mother's Day, and Christmas. It doesn't have to be big. It doesn't have to be expensive. There just has to be some thought put into it. That's it. That's all I ask. Deal?
D: Uh --
Me: Excellent. I'm glad we understand each other.
That was quite a few years ago, and since then I am happy to report David has never once forgotten his job. He invariably comes through and with flying colors. He's bought me a couple of pieces of jewelry that are just my style. He bought me a three-month gift certificate for massages. One year he bought me new dishes -- new dishes!! -- with absolutely no input from me, and yet they were perfect for me and our home. And he really outdid himself this last Christmas when he gave me (us) a trip to France. Hands off, ladies! I've trained him, and he's mine!
I don't even have to give "subtle" hints about when my birthday is coming up or even what I might like to receive. Any attempts of that nature on my part result in him looking at me with a sad expression on his face like I've disappointed him. And in a way I probably have. So he's learned that remembering me on certain occasions is very important, and I've learned to shut up and trust him. Not a bad deal. Not a bad deal at all.
One year David missed first my birthday and then Mother's Day. Could it have been worse? Perhaps. At least he didn't remember my special day by giving me a Dustbuster for my birthday like my dad did for my mom one year. I believe my dad's still paying for that one. However, I was still pretty angry at being forgotten.
As payback I decided to treat myself to a $150 pair of shoes, hoping that would jar him into putting some thought into presents for me instead of letting me go wild with our credit card. How passive-aggressive of me. Unfortunately, the plan backfired since rather than being appalled that I had dropped that much money on something as frivolous as shoes, he seemed relieved I had taken care of the matter myself. I had a fabulous pair of shoes, but not what I really wanted, which was my husband thinking about me and buying a gift himself.
So, we had a little come-to-Jesus talk. Our "talk" went something like this.
Me: We need to have a talk. (The surest way to strike fear in any man's heart.)
D: Uh-oh.
Me: You do realize that you totally missed Mother's Day, right?
D: I did?
Me: And that's after you missed my birthday earlier in the year.
D: Uh --
Me: You understand that by default, meaning that of the two us I am the only one who cares enough to think about it, I have been placed in charge of gift-giving in this family, right?
D: Sure, I guess so.
Me: There's no guess about it. I take care of Christmas, birthdays, Mother's Day, and Father's Day for both sides of the family.
D: Okay. (Tries hard to look disappointed and remorseful, but I see him smirking.)
Me: But I don't want to take care of gifts for myself, too. Another missed occasion will not make me a happy camper. And I don't think you want to see that. I believe you remember what happened the last time I was not a happy camper.
D: (Now with a look of terror in his eyes) Yes, I mean, no, I mean --
Me: So here's how it's going to work. You will buy presents for me three times a year: my birthday, Mother's Day, and Christmas. It doesn't have to be big. It doesn't have to be expensive. There just has to be some thought put into it. That's it. That's all I ask. Deal?
D: Uh --
Me: Excellent. I'm glad we understand each other.
That was quite a few years ago, and since then I am happy to report David has never once forgotten his job. He invariably comes through and with flying colors. He's bought me a couple of pieces of jewelry that are just my style. He bought me a three-month gift certificate for massages. One year he bought me new dishes -- new dishes!! -- with absolutely no input from me, and yet they were perfect for me and our home. And he really outdid himself this last Christmas when he gave me (us) a trip to France. Hands off, ladies! I've trained him, and he's mine!
I don't even have to give "subtle" hints about when my birthday is coming up or even what I might like to receive. Any attempts of that nature on my part result in him looking at me with a sad expression on his face like I've disappointed him. And in a way I probably have. So he's learned that remembering me on certain occasions is very important, and I've learned to shut up and trust him. Not a bad deal. Not a bad deal at all.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
You Never Know What's in Sausage
The other day the girls and I were toodling around town, running various errands. After two or three stops, we decided we were thirsty and would stop for a drink. We dropped our purchases off at the car, and walked to a nearby Starbucks. (My idea. Hello, my name is Jennifer, and I'm a Starbucks-aholic.) Sabrina ordered a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich since she has become a hobbit and it was time for her second breakfast.
We decided to take our order to go and munched and sipped as we meandered back through the parking lot to our car. About halfway there, Sabrina says, "That's weird. There's a rock in my sandwich!" Supremely unconcerned, I told her that was highly unlikely. While one can never know exactly what unsavory ingredients are used to make sausage, generally speaking you can be fairly certain it doesn't include rocks.
Sabrina stopped for a moment and bent over, making a sort of wet sound. Showing vast amounts of motherly concern I asked, "Oh, my gosh. Did you just spit? Or were you vomiting? Either way, that's really disgusting. I hope nobody saw that." She informed me that yes, she had just spit. She didn't want to continue trying to chew that rock in her sausage. And wasn't it weird that the rock was kind of flesh-colored? Thinking this was a lot of drama for what was most likely a piece of gristle I told her no, it wasn't weird. And can we move on before we get a citation for public disturbance or littering or something?
We continued on our way, but about the time we got to car, Sabrina started chanting, "Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh. OH, MY GOSH!" I couldn't ignore her, though I tried, and finally said, "What? What? WHAT?"
"You know that rock in my sausage?"
"Good grief, haven't we sort of exhausted that topic?"
"Mom, I think it was my tooth. LOOK!" And sure enough, a molar was missing.
Rose immediately turned around. I asked her where she was going, and she said we had to go back and look for Sabrina's tooth. Sabrina told her not to worry. The tooth fairy could handle a situation like this. But Rose was insistent, even though it wasn't her tooth that was lost. I told her we were absolutely not going back to crawl around under cars looking for Sabrina's tooth. There were far too many things that could go wrong with that plan, from ruining perfectly good clothes to the girls having to call 911 on my cell phone after I got run over or stuck halfway underneath a car.
Rose reluctantly gave in, and we all got in the car. At least it wasn't her tooth we had to leave behind. I was relieved because in addition to having narrowly avoided being a parking lot accident victim, I still had my coffee. And Sabrina was happy because she felt a good story to tell was more than enough compensation for her not having possession of her tooth.
Until . . . a few days later when the tooth fairy, the reformed dentist Milton J. Snookers, had still not made a visit. Sabrina casually dropped into conversation that good ol' Milton J. had not yet paid her for her lost tooth, but allowed that it was probably because he was having trouble finding it in the parking lot. She would give him an extra day to find it, with the implication that she might not be so reasonable in a day or so.
The next morning she woke up to find this sign posted in her room.
Here's what she wrote back.
And it wasn't until she tried to take Milton J.'s note down that she found this.
We decided to take our order to go and munched and sipped as we meandered back through the parking lot to our car. About halfway there, Sabrina says, "That's weird. There's a rock in my sandwich!" Supremely unconcerned, I told her that was highly unlikely. While one can never know exactly what unsavory ingredients are used to make sausage, generally speaking you can be fairly certain it doesn't include rocks.
Sabrina stopped for a moment and bent over, making a sort of wet sound. Showing vast amounts of motherly concern I asked, "Oh, my gosh. Did you just spit? Or were you vomiting? Either way, that's really disgusting. I hope nobody saw that." She informed me that yes, she had just spit. She didn't want to continue trying to chew that rock in her sausage. And wasn't it weird that the rock was kind of flesh-colored? Thinking this was a lot of drama for what was most likely a piece of gristle I told her no, it wasn't weird. And can we move on before we get a citation for public disturbance or littering or something?
We continued on our way, but about the time we got to car, Sabrina started chanting, "Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh. OH, MY GOSH!" I couldn't ignore her, though I tried, and finally said, "What? What? WHAT?"
"You know that rock in my sausage?"
"Good grief, haven't we sort of exhausted that topic?"
"Mom, I think it was my tooth. LOOK!" And sure enough, a molar was missing.
Rose immediately turned around. I asked her where she was going, and she said we had to go back and look for Sabrina's tooth. Sabrina told her not to worry. The tooth fairy could handle a situation like this. But Rose was insistent, even though it wasn't her tooth that was lost. I told her we were absolutely not going back to crawl around under cars looking for Sabrina's tooth. There were far too many things that could go wrong with that plan, from ruining perfectly good clothes to the girls having to call 911 on my cell phone after I got run over or stuck halfway underneath a car.
Rose reluctantly gave in, and we all got in the car. At least it wasn't her tooth we had to leave behind. I was relieved because in addition to having narrowly avoided being a parking lot accident victim, I still had my coffee. And Sabrina was happy because she felt a good story to tell was more than enough compensation for her not having possession of her tooth.
Until . . . a few days later when the tooth fairy, the reformed dentist Milton J. Snookers, had still not made a visit. Sabrina casually dropped into conversation that good ol' Milton J. had not yet paid her for her lost tooth, but allowed that it was probably because he was having trouble finding it in the parking lot. She would give him an extra day to find it, with the implication that she might not be so reasonable in a day or so.
The next morning she woke up to find this sign posted in her room.
Here's what she wrote back.
And it wasn't until she tried to take Milton J.'s note down that she found this.
In Which the Children are Educated on the Value of Old, Ugly Cars
Rose: Why are there so many advertisements for cars? People don't buy cars like they do clothes or groceries. I don't get it.
David: Well, not everybody waits until their car dies before buying a new one. Many people like to buy a new car every two or three years.
Sabrina: Why? That seems really wasteful.
David: Some people really like new cars. Others spend a lot of time in the car commuting to their job. If I spent a lot of time driving to work, I'd certainly want a better car than I have now. My car is 15 years old, has peeling paint, upholstery that's coming unglued, dents, and has creaking sounds that I have to cover by playing the radio really loudly. But at least it's . . . uh . . . it's . . .
Calvin: Intact?
David: Yeah, it's intact.
David: Well, not everybody waits until their car dies before buying a new one. Many people like to buy a new car every two or three years.
Sabrina: Why? That seems really wasteful.
David: Some people really like new cars. Others spend a lot of time in the car commuting to their job. If I spent a lot of time driving to work, I'd certainly want a better car than I have now. My car is 15 years old, has peeling paint, upholstery that's coming unglued, dents, and has creaking sounds that I have to cover by playing the radio really loudly. But at least it's . . . uh . . . it's . . .
Calvin: Intact?
David: Yeah, it's intact.
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