grrlTravels

The End! the end.

It is the end of November, and therefore the end of NaBloPoMo. No more daily posts. I am sure you are as relieved as I am.

Honestly I'm not sure why I kept going. There really aren't 30 consecutive posts floating around in this brain of mine. I think it is the same thing that happens when you are waiting in line and waiting and waiting and waiting and you know that you should just get out of line and leave but the longer you wait the more committed you are to waiting. Once I got started it seemed hard to stop unless there was a very good reason. I stood in that line for at least 10 posts longer than I should have.

K. has made me swear that I will not do this next year. I have duly sworn.

It's also the end of vacation. Of course I am sad to leave and worried about heading home to pick up all of the stress of our daily lives again. It is so nice to let it go for a bit. If you haven't vacationed lately, plan one! Vacations are critical to good mental health and they are self nurturing in a good way. Good for relationships. Good for thinking out of the box. Just good.

We did some shots on the beach this morning for the Christmas cards. I might have something, I mean something where Z. isn't pretending to pick her nose. What is it with the nose picking? Pick yourself a merry little Christmas? Pick your way to a happy new year? Also one where the ocean isn't slanting to the right and one where it doesn't look like there is an atom bomb exploding out of the top of Z.'s head. I might have one like that. And then again I might not.

I'm not sure what compelled me to take the shots. I have two other plans for the Christmas cards neither of which include the necessity of a beach shot of the kids. Plus I have about 5 people to send cards to this year. Last year I had very cute cards printed and then I sent out 5 of them and never got around to the others. When you do things like that no one sends you cards. This is a good plan for how to cut down your card list, should you desire to do so. The one idea I have for the cards is very cute, but it also requires that I assemble the cards. That is probably a bad idea. Except that I am only sending out 5 cards.

I don't really care. I am not in a Christmas-y mood since it has been 80+ degrees for the past 10 days and we have been swimming and sunning ourselves. Tomorrow is December. It is going to be a wake up call in more ways than one. At least I'm not in line any longer.

The End.

random bits from the Caribbean

On the eve of the eve of our return home:

We had a really lovely day today. I mean after I cried hard for 20 minutes this morning and K. took the kids off for two hours and I went back to bed. That Z., she will not sleep. It is even getting to K. and he needs about 5 hours less per night than I do. But after that we had a glorious day. I am sad to leave, except that I am pretty desperate for sleep right now.

K. bought E. a mini chocolate souffle this morning while he was removing the children from my presence and then he bought me some goodies and got one for me too. Except it never made it back to the house. E. walked in the door and said "Thank you Mommy!" very brightly and then K. said I must love him very much to sacrifice my chocolate souffle for him after he already I had one and I suppose I must. Love him very much. I did want the souffle though.

We had one of those dinners tonight which you remember for years to come. The food, the ambiance, the waiter, the place, it was all perfect. Perfect! I know I will think about this meal in the middle of winter when I am eating canned beans and I feel pasty and unattractive. I will think about it and it will make me happy. K. had escargot and whole grilled snapper and I had curry chicken. It was better than I am making it sound.

Speaking of dinner, I used to be afraid of French food. I am afraid of it because there are lots of things that the French eat regularly which I don't. But we've eaten at French restaurants for the majority of this trip and at least in the Caribbean I have conquered my fear. I've always been down with escargot and apparently mussels are big here—well I can eat mussels standing on my head. Curries? Check. All manner of grilled seafood? Check. Plus they know their desserts.

There is a little gecko/salamander/lizard-y guy who lives in the bathroom to the right and comes out after we shower to enjoy the water on the tile. If you walk back in he freezes and looks quite concerned. I will miss him.

We are deep, deep, deep into the game. You know the game. I bet you play it too. The Could - We - Really - Live - Here - Full - Time - and - How - Would - That - Work - Exactly game. I play it on every vacation. It's a really fun game except for the part where we never move and I am trapped living in New Jersey. For the record I have decided that I definitely could live on Saint Martin for a couple of years at least. Of course I make that same exact decision on 90% of the trips we take. I have decided yes with respect to China, Bangladesh, and Orlando so it is clear that I cannot be trusted.

P.S. E. says, "It is different from home here." I ask how. "There is the ocean and you can go swimming every day. It is warm. The ice cream here melts really fast. And they speak French." I think he hit all of the highlights.

2 p.m. Huh?

The schedule here is a bit complicated. Well, it's a lot complicated. We can't get it. At all.

We are one hour ahead of our normal time zone. Ok, we can deal with that, especially since we are on vacation and we don't need to be anywhere.

The businesses on the French side close from 1 to 3 pm. Or 3:30. But mostly 3. I thought the siesta was a Spanish thing (and a thing which I could definitely embrace wholeheartedly), but here in the French West Indies the siesta happens. On the French side. Not the Dutch side. Except not all businesses on the French side. But lots of them. This is very difficult to remember when one is on vacation and one's brain lacks the capacity to recall such important data when it has been switched over to vacation mode.

Sometimes places are open, sometimes they aren't. They open if they feel like it, and if they don't, they don't. Also some places are closed on Mondays, some on Tuesdays. Some on Sundays. It varies. As you can see.

Dinner is later. No one eats lunch. I couldn't say anything about breakfast because we haven't been out of the house that early yet. The beach restaurants that the guidebooks say are open for dinner stop serving food at 5. We found out one of the fun beach restaurants was open late on Sunday, but we found this out on Tuesday. The one town gets seedy after dark, the other is fine. We haven't been out very late because Z. has decided to get up at 5:15 am (4:15 am our time) every night. Get up and stay up. No more sleep after 5:15. That is one powerful alteration to the schedule.

E. and I had mini chocolate souffles for breakfast or brunch or lunch, depending on who you ask. They were divine. I would eat them for every single meal if I could. Some things are beyond the constraints of scheduling issues. Mini chocolate souffles at the first good French bakery we have found are one of those things.

What time did you say it was? Not that it matters because I won't be able to comprehend the implications anyway.

P.S. E. says, "When you suddenly love someone who you never met before that is making friends." I'd have to agree.

Speaking of food...

My restaurant radar is kaput. Not only is my radar gone, but my ability to choose something that I might want to eat from a menu is also seriously impaired. The food cells in my brain are scrambled.

Of course lunch today didn't count because I was overheating and shaky and desperate for sustenance, anything with calories. Good decisions are hard to come by when one is dehydrating and hypoglycemic at the same time. We landed ourselves in a pretty restaurant on the beach. My fish and chips were scary. The fish was brownish-gray and had a strange texture. BROWNISH-GRAY I said. Hypoglycemia. Dehydration. No radar.

But the other days? No such excuse. The food has either been terrifically terrific or awful. There is no in-between. It is all fabulously expensive. We are getting a bit gun shy. We start overthinking, wandering about, weighing pros and cons for far too long. Then K. threatens to feed us what we ate on our first night here (vanilla pudding for everyone!) and we make a decision.

Tonight we decided to return to a restaurant we had previously scoped out which was attractive and bustling and fragrant. When we got there it was closed. All of the other restaurants were open, but not this one. That is a story for another day. I ended up with tough codfish balls. Yes, I did.

Fried fish twice in one day, two misses. What was I thinking? Radar. Is. Gone. Boo hoooo. That radar was my superpower. What am I going to do now? Learn to fly? Leap tall buildings in a single bound? Who wants to do that?

In other news, here are a few not very good photos taken with the fisheye lens for Shelba. I am making progress, but the photos, they still aren't very good.

That lens is kicking my butt.

I'm documenting something

I am obsessed with taking photos of food. It seems to serve no reasonable purpose, but I still take the shots. What to do with them? Post when I am too tired to think of anything to say.

Just be thankful I'm not posting the menus...

Week 4 Wrap Up: There's the Ocean

Today's entree du jour for exercising was dragging the two children straight up the side of a mountain. The payout was a view which we had just seen by driving up the side of the same mountain and walking unstrenuously for 5 minutes. The hiking was more fun. And sweatier. This house is marker-less and construction paper-less. E.'s production has thankfully ground to a halt. And no preschool this week. Unfortunately I did not remember to inform the preschool that E. was going to be missing his 3 days this coming week. I'm sure I'll be suitably chastised when we return. The trip here was long and bad. One of our flights was delayed and following a late arrival we had issues with the rental car. Oh, and we left the stroller on the luggage carousel. I managed to repeat to myself a million times It will all be worth it when we get there. I wasn't wrong. Stacey and Lisa win the prize for power shopping on Black Friday. You go, girls! (Can't pull that off even in the Caribbean, can I? Is You Go, GirlZ! any better?) I bought European cookies last night. They are not a gift—I am eating them myself. BTW, I nailed the house we rented. I love it. Location is perfect, less than 5 minutes driving from the beach. There are hundreds of tiny ants at any given moment crawling everywhere, including on the beds. There is no reason to disturb them, as there are thousands more outside waiting for the go ahead to enter. The view is killer, the swimming pool is cold (but E. doesn't mind), one of the toilets is hard to flush, all of the faucets drip constantly, the air conditioners are too cold no matter what we set them to (we've turned them off mostly), and I am using a beach towel as an extra blanket. There is plenty of toilet paper. There is no outside shower, but the inside ones pretty much make up for it. It is indeed divine.

slave to the weather

Speaking of shopping, I do not happen to be one of those people who can get the good bargains off season. I am in whatever season it happens to be 100%.

In the winter, I cannot believe there was ever a day when it felt too hot outside, when I was sweaty and headachey and miserable. The thought of buying something made out of thin cotton gauze seems ludicrous. I cannot imagine being hot enough to wear something that sheer and breezy ever again. Ditto summer. In the summer I cannot recall a single instance when my fingers were just this side of numb or my ears were tingling or the desire to lop my cold feet right off was strong. The thought of wool is horrifying.

This makes packing for vacation interesting. I give it my best effort. It is cold outside and heading toward winter. I am all about scarves and slippers and hot chocolate and snuggling. I must pack. We are going somewhere warm. I force myself to pull out the shorts and sandals, suntan lotion and tweezers and razors. In the moment I cannot fathom being hot ever again. I pack socks but no jackets or even a sweater. I feel insane. I pack the shorts, but I lean towards the heavier weight items, like thicker khaki and denim.

We arrive in a sunny clime. It is warm, hot even, and humid. Every single thing I have packed seems overly fussy and binding. I wonder why it did not occur to me to pack the floaty cotton skirts and everything without sleeves, the sleeveless-iest the better. I think constantly about buying lighter things, lighter, lighter, lighter. I leave the socks in the suitcase. I am amused that I even thought I might need or want a sweater. I cannot imagine ever being cold.

black Friday isn't even gray

I used to take Black Friday as a personal shopping challenge. The parking, the crowds, the lines, the frenzy. It was all part of the challenge to Purchase Holiday Gifts That Aren't Awful While Your Eyeballs Are Being Squeezed Out To A Ridiculous Extent By The Ginormous Marketing Machine That Is Christmas Shopping, and Black Friday is the challengingist day of the year. The over-the-top decorations at the mall, the Christmas music, the cheery shopping bags, the bustle and hum, the Salvation Army bell ringers, the sales, they all just add to the fun.

Sadly we haven't been home for Black Friday in quite some time. Well, not really sadly since we are generally on vacation. I can't complain. To commemorate my absence on the first day of the season we sat in traffic not once but twice today. We also overspent on lunch and dinner. It was a good attempt, but no trip to the mall. I do miss Black Friday.

Black Friday is not even gray-ish in the Caribbean. It is blue and green and white, just like most other days.

Ok, I don't miss it all that much. But I hope you went out and bought something today. Come on, throw me a bone. The only things I got to buy today were yogurt and bottled water and some overpriced fish (fish was ok, if expensive, salad dressing (if you can call it that) was vile). What did you buy?

I'm sooooo tired I almost gave up

preschool still kicks my butt

For some reason I find myself unable to follow the preschool calendar. I am always being surprised by things. Everyone knew that the kids had today off, everyone but me. And then there is all the stuff: bring an apple / flashlight / show and tell to class. Sell frozen food items to make money for the school. Fill a shoebox full of Christmas gifts for needy kids. None of it is bad. It is just unrelenting. And this is preschool.

Then there are the goodies they send home with him. I'm sure there are those of you out there who are able to throw this stuff away, but I can't. None of it. Even the less than stellar efforts. The pile is beginning to tip and it is only November and I can't get rid of any of it.

Certainly I will not throw away anything with a picture.
This gem was one of the very first things he brought home. I was charmed!
Certainly something as illustrative of his burgeoning intellect as this must be retained.
We haven't even begun to discuss the 3D items. This has a bit of mold growing on the berries. I think it adds to the charm. Doesn't it?

Ok, perhaps this one can go. I found one!

Here is the card that E. made for HSM this morning. He isn't just producing at school—he adds to the pile at home too!

Oh hard-hearted among you, give me tips, otherwise we will need a third storage unit.

(I am supposed to be furiously packing right now, or showering, or preparing for our trip in some other meaningful way. Lunch would be nice too. This was rushed. I am rushed.)

progress is progress, fast or slow

The therapists at feeding therapy are happy. "Z. is doing great!" they tell me and smile at us. "She is making such good progress. We are very pleased."

In this case progress means that Z. will accept into her mouth (I really think it should be oral cavity, but I'm leaving it mouth) tiny amounts of various pureed foods in the extremely controlled setting of the outpatient clinic of the local hospital where we go for her sessions. She will also tolerate the nuk brush and the chew tube in her mouth for fractions of a second at a time.

Sadly, my primary goals for Z. and the feeding therapists' are complementary but dissimilar. Here is a Venn diagram for your perusal:

I am red. They are yellow. Orange is where we do the happy dance of shared goals.

I have been given the task of bringing in foods that we normally eat at home, cooked and pureed for Z. to try. I am not to bring in anything she already accepts. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: our repertoire is seemingly limited. Another secret: we don't ever eat creamed corn. Note to therapists: There AREN'T Any Other Foods Which We Regularly Eat Which When Pureed Are Not The Consistency of Wallpaper Paste Or Simply Utterly Disgusting.

I am still all about calories. Calories are da bomb in our house. Calories are king. (Even for me—see previous entry for more info.) They are all about new textures and new flavors and chewing. All very good things. Can't argue with those. But when I have to choose between giving Z. a dinner of pureed veggies (calories: 5) or the old standby (McDonald's full fat, full sugar yogurt, calories: 130) I don't actually give feeding therapy a second thought.

It is constant push-pull with me and Z. and the therapists. I have not been able to get off the calories / feeding tube / vomiting / failure to thrive roller coaster. I boarded right after that first fateful vomit during our very first breakfast with Z., even if I didn't quite realize it at the time. I've been riding it ever since. I must confess I'm a bit fatigued by the vomit-inducing thrillingness after all this time. The roller coaster also means I find it so very, very difficult to give creamed corn and mashed fresh fruit and brothy soup the attention they deserve.

Progress is sometimes hard to see when you are flying by at 60 mph heading for the triple loop one more time. Thank goodness the professionals are standing on solid ground.

These are MY feelings about feeding therapy. I do understand that she is making progress and that each step is important and worthy of celebration. I am not frustrated with the process. (Mostly.) Some days the absurdity of it hits me. Some days it doesn't.

And Z., Z., she is a trooper. All of her therapists tell me that she is a very hard worker. She sits there and does as they ask to the best of her ability. It makes my heart swell to watch her. She tastes and bites and licks and swallows. She also grimaces and flinches and shudders, but she gets through it. She's pretty amazing. And she smiles at the end and says, "Thank you, Miss L. Bye bye Miss L."

feel the spurn

Well, I'm exercising.

I keep waiting to find a way to make exercising funny. But when it's only 10 minutes 2 or 3 times per week, and I'm not exactly heading to the 2008 Olympics (even in archery), and it doesn't feel good yet, it just isn't all that funny.

I had almost given up. I felt lousy about myself (4), lousy about my weight creeping up (+25), lousy about my fitness level (-300). I also felt trapped by the kids (2). No matter how much brain power I gave it (110%) or how many times I programmed myself to dream about it (3), there didn't seem to be a way to exercise.

Oh, there's always a way. I see 10s of people out there exercising every day and I'm sure one or two of them have children, even preschoolers maybe. But none of my options were appealing enough to make me Just Do It. K. was having his own struggles with exercising, seeing how we are needy here in the house and we want time with him. He bravely went to the gym at 9:30 or 10 pm or 7:30 or 8:00 am but the schedule wasn't flowing. We had no flow.

Then we came up with a miraculous solution. We bought our own machine. A great behemoth of a elliptical contraption. We stuffed it in our lodge room at a strange angle facing the wall. It is impossible to ignore.

I was pleased and horrified at the same time. I now had a good option for exercising, and I now had a good option for exercising. I took my time about it, but then Halloween happened and the candy wouldn't stop looking my way and I felt worse with winter coming and the end of daylight savings time and the fat pants came out and stayed out and they pushed me right into the wonky arms of the contrivance.

I'm not saying there is NO humor. It's extremely humorous when I think about it too much and my feet and arms get askew and I fight not to fall off the machine. The dirty looks I direct toward the machine are funny. Ditto my attempts to ignore it or placate it.

I set some pathetically lame goals for myself, the first of which is to be able to exercise for longer than 10 minutes without falling off the elliptical trainer in a dead faint or a fit or awkwardness. I wish I was in training for our trip to China, but I find it more likely that I am in training for our trip to Disney next May, or perhaps just in training for next Halloween.

Anyway, I said it. I'm exercising (5).

Week 3 Wrap Up: E. is 5! Still!

Time is speeding up. Whirrrrrrrr. The entries come one right after another, on and on and on, no end in sight. Whirl. I get one in the bag and blink and bang! it's time for another entry. Whoosh.

The Wrap Up

I paid bills today, a foul, foul exercise if ever there was one, and gave AmEx some dollars for the free tickets to Saint Martin. The $600, it rankles.

The top of the dryer is still clear, and I still love K. The fact that there has been no occasion of mention in which fancy clothes have been needed in the past two weeks should not reflect negatively on my accomplishment.

I am feeling skippy. I might not even research every single dining option on Saint Martin. I might just get on the plane and go (with my guidebooks—I'm not saying I'm fully reformed, mostly just busy).

Tuesday was ugly. The rest of the week following was stressful. I've jumped back up, though, big boots on, ready to wade through it all, making lemonade and watching for the silver lining and wiping up the spilt milk and pretending that last week was all about the wrong side of the bed and getting myself an umbrella for the next downpour and waiting for the meanies to get a taste of their own medicine. Taking comfort in conventional wisdom don't you know.

I am reminding K. to pack. He is not packing. He will not pack until the early - early - early morning on Thursday, keeping me up and making me grumpy.

E. is still 5. Today there has been a big post-birthday, post-camp-out letdown. Apparently it's hard work being 5 and E. is already fatigued by it all. Fatigued enough to whine at us all day. May be a combination of too much sugar and too much Mario.

Does it bother you when people add random clip art images to their newsletters to spice them up? Especially when each clip art image is in a completely different style and scale? Does anyone think that the tic-tac, left-right placement adds anything to the layout? Don't worry, it's bugging me too. I can use my own blog to push my own super-freaky absurd buttons.

I'm off to sew. I need some thread to restore my equilibrium.

E.! Is! Five!

Our holiday season begins in September (HSM's birthday), goes strong through October (K. + Z.), and doesn't stop in November. Today is E.'s birthday (if the title didn't make that clear).

E. got to choose what today would hold, and sadly he chose Chuck E. Cheese as he does every year on his big day. I suggested various options using various compelling arguments and various will-bending techniques to no avail. No zoo. No aquarium. No science museum. My oldest is, uh, easily amused.

We didn't really mind. He is a lovely child, so laid back he is practically comatose, charming, affectionate, funny, interesting. He calls me honey and sweetie and dear, just like K. "Don't worry, sweetie," he tells me, "It will be fine." He loves to build with whatever is on hand. He loves video games, the Backyardigans, and FoodNetwork. "Is Rachel Ray on, hon?" he asks, "Because we like Rachel Ray." And so we do. It is a pleasure to accompany him to C.E.C. on occasion.

So Chuck E. Cheese it was and we had a fine time. For lunch he chose T.G.I. Fridays, for dinner he wanted PB&J at home. He requested carrot cake, and I have mother guilt over the fact that I bought him a nut filled cake rather than baking it myself without. He has a had a good E. Day and he is preparing for a camp out in the living room tonight.

My E. I love him so. I'm thrilled to be able to celebrate this day with him, and I can't wait to see what this year brings. (Besides Kindergarten. I could live without that. I won't. But I could.) Happy Birthday E.K.W.D.! We love you!

it's easy buying green

If you know that you will not have the time, talent, or inclination to make stuff this year to give as gifts why not consider buying handmade or eco-friendly? Support small businesses, find unique goodies, perhaps save a bit of the planet.

• Local craft shows abound near the holidays. Some are good, some are so-so and some are...well, there doesn't seem to be a kind way to say it. Craft fairs are all over the board. Check them out for local talent and items.
• Etsy: The Mothership of Handcrafting. Etsy now rivals Amazon for hours spent browsing things I didn't even know I wanted until I saw them. Let's see some random Favorite Items: kids clothes, luggage tags, letterpressed card, art, jewelry, recycle love, tree octopus
• Green With Glamour has gorgeous, pricey, environmentally friendly gift ideas. Perhaps you need something glamorous and green.
• Check the recycled collection of Uncommon Goods, recycled goods on Karma Market, fair trade items from A Greater Gift
• Consider supporting established organizations which have a global consciousness: Oxfam America, search "recycle" on NOVICA, Heifer International, find a way to support a cause that's important to you—many charities have online shops or other fundraising efforts
• Let's get specific and practical: reusable shopping bags from Basura Bags. The counter at the top of the page makes me nervous, but there are 4 or 5 bags on this site which I LOVE PASSIONATELY. Helping your friends use less paper AND plastic is a double green whammy, and we all love those.
• Google "green gifts", "eco-friendly", "fair trade gifts", "organic", "handmade", "handcrafted"

[I didn't take the handmade pledge—I don't really like signing petitions and I'm not sure I see the point of taking the pledge. I suppose it is just to further the idea of buying and giving handmade, and clearly I can support that. I'm supporting it, I'm just not signing up.]

It's not the newly refurbished Pirates of the Caribbean, but it will have to do

E. is packed. We talked about vacation, how we were leaving soon, how we were going to the beach, how we were going to get on the plane to get to somewhere warm enough to swim.

About 10 minutes later E. appeared downstairs with his little carry-on suitcase, packed. In fact we had to remove several items including Little Guy, who wouldn't last 10 minutes much less 10 days smooshed in a suitcase. He was thorough, I'll give him that. He showed me the contents of the suitcase and explained each item. And 15 minutes later the suitcase was zipped up and sitting by the front door, ready to go.

E.'s necessities:
13 wooden blocks
1 foam helicopter (which comes apart rather suddenly)
Stuffed friends: Little Guy, Pablo (for Z.), and a cheapo snake he won at the fair
1 blanket
4 books
K.'s game boy

Add some snacks and he's probably 90% there. I insist on packing him sticker books for the plane which he never plays with, and K. will load up the iPod and we'll be good.

I'm a little sad that we aren't going to Florida this year. Our next trip to Disney is with friends, and however we tried to make the dates work this fall they didn't. (Crazy lunatic friends didn't want to go away with us over Thanksgiving, mumbling something about family and turkey. I think they have some kind of family reunion thingy that must have been planned because there was a long weekend? And they always eat turkey when they get together? Something along those lines—I'm not sure exactly.) Plus, we waited so long (as usual) that all we were offered was a cabin in Fort Wilderness, and although I am not generally opposed to cabins (seeing how I live in one year round) I was worried about the location of the bus stops and Fort Wilderness in general. Plus I like myself a washer and a drier while I'm vacationing if I can get one.

So Saint Martin/Sint Maarten it is. I suppose I shouldn't complain. There's no Mickey, no monorail, no goofy themed restaurants or hotels, but there are beautiful beaches, the blue, blue Caribbean ocean, and well, there's the blue, blue Caribbean ocean. We are leaving one week from today.

E. is ready to go. So am I.

(Oh yeah, half way there for NaBloPoMo. The easy half down, the slogging half still coming. Yep, I blogged about the Weather Channel and we aren't even slogging yet. Sad, I know. But still. 15 days down.)

I am fine, if a bit bruised

It has not taken me 41 years to decide that I like the weather channel, but it has taken me 41 years to admit it to the world at large. It seems like such a retiree thang.

I do, though. I like the weather channel. I find it very relaxing. I don't understand why, but I slump (in a good way) the second it comes on. I can watch it for hours at a time. Hours. Seriously.

When I was growing up my bedroom was in the attic of our small house. It was lonely up there for a 10-year-old, and I got into the habit of listening to the Phillies baseball games being called on an AM channel on my clock radio. I found the announcer's voice soothing, the rhythm of the games soothing. I would lay in the dark letting Harry Kallas' voice lull me into sleep. When the games weren't on I would listen to the local news station, and especially the weather.

The most exciting weather reports were in the winter when snow was expected. Would we have school? How much snow were we getting? I would stay awake to listen to the weather report over and over (every 10 minutes or so) trying to find minute changes in the forecast. In the morning I would turn on my radio right away to listen for the school closing numbers. How I loved listening to those numbers, especially when school was cancelled. I would listen to the whole long list over and over, getting a little thrill each time the number of my school was announced.

My beloved clock radio had numbers on little panels that flipped when the time changed. One day the little panels began to fall off, and soon it was time to say goodbye to the clock radio. I got a replacement right away, but things haven't been the same since. The new clock was digital, for one. I hate baseball now, although I still pause to listen to Harry Kallas. There aren't any snow days when you are an adult, not many anyway. Cable has taken care of the reading of the numbers, taken away the building anticipation. Flip on the tv and you know instantly.

But the weather, the weather remains. I will admit to an ugly vicarious thrill watching huge waves and swirly red hurricanes and tree-bending wind and quietly powerful blizzards. (Not tornados, though. Tornados are plain evil.) I am powerless under the spell of the multitudinous weather maps. Oh, the maps. I love the forecasts. I feel lost when I don't know what the weather is to be. I'm generally prepared to talk to at least 80% of the over-70s that I run into because there's always the weather.

Green bands of rain beginning to creep towards us. 80% chance of rain tomorrow, high 57 dropping to 45, winds 20 to 30 mph. Lovely, isn't it?

kick em when they're up, kick em when they're down

Woke up. Felt like a normal day. Gave the kids a bath. (Ok, so it wasn't normal-normal.) Went downstairs.

K. called and delivered bad news. Felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. Rolled around on the floor (figuratively speaking) for a bit.

Decided that the only want to handle it was to stand back up and keep on going. Stood back up. Did some errands. K. called again. Delivered different bad news. Felt kicked again. Hard.

Rolled around on the floor (figuratively speaking) for a bit longer. Wondered about the decency of mankind. Yelled "Life Is Unfair!" in my head more times than I care to admit to.

Hiding now. Don't much want to leave the house. Lightning may strike. Going to my happy place.

one vacation, hermetically sealed, please

I hate to waste perfectly good vacation days moping around some tropical destination because the room sucks or the bathroom is crappy or we happen to have settled on the wrong side of the island. So I like to do my homework.

Homework means googling the heck out of the destination, and especially the accommodations. I head straight to TripAdvisor.com, which has user reviews for almost every single hotel I have ever searched for, no matter how obscure. It's a great site, save the fact that at least one third of the reviewers are completely insane.

If there are more than 3 reviews, there is at least one negative one. My tact is to start reading from the top and read at least 3 or 4 positive reviews until I feel like I have a good feel for the place. Then I skip around reading as many of the negative reviews as I can stomach until I have a good idea of what people are complaining about. Trips are all about expectations. There are days, like the days you are driving cross country towing a camper, that a campground with hot showers and flush toilets might be a little bit of heaven. And other days when the hot showers with the cement floors might be the thing that drives you right over the edge. Expectations, right? I like to have mine set properly. So it's good to hear both the good and the bad. Right?

Unfortunately there is that squiggly, vacations - are - precious - and - we - can't - waste - a - whole - week - with - a - fridgethatsmellsoffish, I Need To Relax, this might be the last nice vacation we ever have, freakin over-analytical side of me that believes every single idiotic thing that every single ridiculous person writes on the Information Superhighway. That side me of makes reading TripAdvisor a tad disconcerting.

What if you do wait in line for 45 minutes every night for dinner, only to be harrassed by sullen waitpersons? What if every single bed DOES smell like the mildewed shower curtains from your freshman year at college? What if the whole entire complex IS crawling with cockroaches the size of my hand? WHAT IF?

Never mind that in the tropics bugs sort of come with the territory. Ditto dampness. Never mind that many times your attitude forecasts the treatment you will receive from people and your ability to embrace the place you've chosen. Never mind that it is somewhat arrogant to say, "I hated every single thing about <insert name of country here>." Never mind that some people are just plain stupid. Those stupid people have chosen to express their opinions on the Internet and that confers on them a validity that they may or may not deserve. How is one to know?

I drove myself batty going around and around and around trying to decide if I could stand a lackluster view (of course I can.), less than perfectly manicured landscaping (yep.), large rooms which could stand a bit of renovation (size matters.), and a host of other tedious details which might matter but probably won't. I worked myself into such a frenzy of indecision and worry that K. was forced to take matters into his own hands and rented us a house within 1 day of putting his hands to the keyboard. It's a house (what's the neighborhood like?) on a hill (can't walk to the beach), with a pool (small) and presumably a view of the ocean (but maybe not). It sounds divine. We will take any bugs (inevitable), leaky faucets (or funky toilets or confusing hot water heaters or mysterious air conditioners), or lack of blankets (or pillows or forks or toilet paper) in stride.

Now that the lodging are settled we must investigate how we might like to spend our time and if we are going to be able to eat anywhere with the children. I think I'll start with TripAdvisor.com. When I loop back around on myself so many times that I wear a groove in the carpet I'll let you know.

Week 2 Wrap Up: I Liked Week Two

(loosely illustrated)

1. At the flea market today I limited myself to only one book that no one else would want. That is progress in my book. (Har.)

2. My teeth still hurt. It's been since Tuesday. I was to go back on Thursday for the second cleaning, but I am afraid I will ruin my vacation if I do. I'm going to reschedule. Stinkin plaque. Stinkin gum disease. Stinkin dental floss.

3. If you would like an easy, tasty recipe for greek salad dressing made from items you might have on hand, check out this recipe on FoodNetwork.com. Then smash some garlic and eat some greek salad for me.

4. I hate when you read recipes that say you will have everything on hand and then I don't have everything on hand. It makes me feel lame and unprepared. Of course I AM lame and unprepared. But still. I don't need constant reminders from smirking chefs and cookbook authors.

5. Seeeing HSM made my maternal heart go pitty pat. Even the shrieking. He strikes me as a fine young man. I absolutely cannot wait to meet him.

6. Here is the letter from Z.'s CWI:
   
   We are very happy to receive your letter! We have also received the care package and presents you have sent for the children. The children love their presents and we thank your family from the bottom of our hearts for your generosity and concern for our SWI. We are very happy to see how much ZeGuo have grown. We are extremely grateful and fortunate to know that ZeGuo will be in such a loving family.
   
   We appreciate the understanding and concern that you have shown for all of us [the workers in the SWI], and we will do our best to take great care of the children, to provide the best environment for the children to grow in.
   
   We thank you again for your pictures and presents.
   
   The children from our SWI would like to express their gratitude to your family by making a card for you. We hope you will like it.
   
   The interesting thing is that there weren't any older children at the CWI except for a very few unadoptable children with more severe special needs. Makes the card even better. Also, the letter makes me teary for reasons I don't understand.

7. I talk a good game. I have not started a single Christmas gift, although I have ideas for most of the people on my list. No ideas for my kids yet, but I can come up with something. I need to start. But I am wrapped up with other things I am working on currently. I think the next 6-7 weeks are going to fly by. Whoosh.

(illustrations from book no one would want, purchased today)

the gift that keeps on giving is GREEN

dear commentors,
I agree. Some of the greenest gifts are the handmade ones, and any consideration of a green holiday season should include handmade gifts.

Why? You can make the gifts using natural or recycled materials. You aren't supporting big business. [Many of those larger businesses don't have the best track record when it comes to the environment, do they?] Not to mention the packaging. How I hate the plastic on top of plastic on top of plastic.

Inspiration for Handmade Gifts

• The Sew, Mama, Sew blog has 30 days of gifts to sew in November, and I've seen lots of stuff I'd love to get as a gift


• If you have an idea of what you'd like to make, try Craftster.org, GetCrafty.com, or HGTV.com for inspiration and how-tos


• Need a tutorial? Try my half of the brain


• Want something a little more technical? Try instructables, Make magazine, ReadyMade magazine, or Craft magazine


• Get the kids going too: Christmas gifts to make on FamilyFun.com, hipper stuff for older kids on D.I.Y. Kids, scrumdilly-do, Kids Crafts on DIY Network, kids craft weekly, arts & crafts for kids on AmazingMoms.com, check the archives of kiddley


• I've been enjoying the following sewing books, all of which have easy projects suitable for beginners: Amy Butler's In Stitches, Lotta Jansdotter's Simple Sewing, Bend-the-Rules Sewing, Simple Sewing with a French Twist, Doodle-Stitching, Pretty Little Pincushions [I don't have it yet, but I want it] (listed in no particular order)

For myself, I am planning to make at least one item for everyone on my list. I can't promise that there won't be some gifts encased in plastic because I'm pretty sure both E. and Z. will get some. But at least one made-by-hand gift per recipient. I hope. And if you aren't going to have the time to craft yourself, consider buying handmade. We'll have some ideas for that coming up.

this one was written for me too

Yesterday was a teensy bit surreal. First the video of HSM popping into the inbox. I am so pleased to see him walking and looking so fine. He looks like an eater, no? Can't wait to feed him, well, everything I can think of.

We also got a letter from China. From Z.'s CWI. It was so sweet. There was a letter (being translated), a photo of Z. taken on the day that the referral photos were taken, and a handmade card. I am so curious to know who made the card. Hopefully the letter will say something.

The mooncakes were worth it, I'd have to say. I'm glad we sent them, and I'm excited about this little envelope from half way around the world. Yesterday was a very good day.

this entry was written for me at approx 1:06 am

Gosh.

I'm feeling a bit concerned. It's the...well, it's the godzilla impersonation. It's disturbing.

On the other hand, he's...he's...he's....

Well, see for yourself.

even the olives

It has taken me 41 years to decide that I love greek salad.

I am not a big cheese person. I am extremely wimpy when it comes to cheese to be exact. K., K. will go to the cheese shop and look the cheese shop guy right in the eye and say, "Give me your stinkiest cheese," without even flinching. And he will pay for that stinky cheese and bring that cheese home and stink up the cheese drawer (what do you keep in your little drawer? We keep cheese and bacon and lunchmeat and sauerkraut and pepperoni--I should call it Drawer o' Nitrates and be done with it.) and eat that cheese. Yep. He eats it. I KNOW!

Not me. Ask me what my favorite cheese it and I will say either Monterey Jack or Muenster and I will feel proud of myself for branching out and eating the weird cheese. Uh huh. So greek salad seemed scary all these years what with the feta cheese AND the Kalamata olives. I stayed far away. (My inability to eat cheese is one of the main reasons that I have not pushed to travel in Europe yet. Seriously.)

Then one day we were eating in a diner and my meal came with a greek salad on the side and I thought, oh what the heck, I'll just eat it. And I did. And I liked it. I thought all of those people who have been eating greek salad all of these years were actually on to something. And quietly my obsession with greek salad began.

Thus far my forties have been one long intense craving for foods I previously found detestable starting with pancakes (yep, used to hate em) and moving right along to greek salad (even the olives). The fact that this may be some sort of precursor to menopause has not escaped me. My mother hit it pretty early in her 40s and it wasn't pretty. We will be talking about The Change and how wonderful it is and how it will expand my horizons and make my life better, etc., etc. on another day. I even have a good article in a magazine from the 50s that I bought at the flea market on how to cope. But not today. Today: Greek salad. Another day: Hot flashes and periods with more blood than you have ever imagined.

I wonder what 42 will bring. I'm betting it won't be stinky cheese, but you never know.

go green along with me, the best is yet to be

If you want to go green at Christmas, you've got to start early and plan. These days those are not my strong points. But no mind. I am starting today.

I am back to the yearly dilemma about the wrapping paper. The bins, no the aisles of wrapping paper at the local super stores are bothering me more and more. The other day I wandered by and the thought of all of the paper going straight into the trash in so many homes made me queasy. At the same time I am having difficulty with the thought of not giving my kids the pile of wrapped presents. So I am making a compromise and ordering recycled, earth friendly wrapping paper today to kick things off. It isn't the best option, but it isn't the worst either.

1. PapOrganics has some beautiful hemp paper printed with vegetable inks (Looks like some Whole Foods will be carrying it)
2. Smith & Hawken has some recycled options, like Winter Pine Gift Wrap
3. Importica has gift wrap made from shedding tree bark and colored with nontoxic dyes.
4. How about some super hip paper from Fish Lips Paper Designs?
5. Etsy comes through as usual: Erin Ruth (although this paper is only 50% recycled)

While you're at it, how about some recycled tissue paper? (Or just skip it altogether.)

The best recycled paper is made from post-consumer waste (PCW). There are also good sustainable alternatives like hemp and banana paper. But don't listen to me—there is a wealth of information on the internet, too much for me to process on this night when half of my mouth is aching from a deep cleaning by the snotty dental hygienist.

books nobody wants: installment 1

The books, they call to me. At the flea market, at the thrift store, yard sale, discount bin, they call to me.

I'm not sure what it is. Right now it feels like nothing more or less than a compulsion. I am definitely compulsive when it comes to vintage cookbooks. When I see them I can't walk away, and when I sort through them there is always one or two which I must have. I am slightly better, just slightly, when it comes to vintage travel books and books that you might have used to write your first report in 6th grade on a country in Central or South America. Then there are children's books, crafting books, house books. books, books, books, books, books.

This little stack pretty much screams "AMY/GRRLTRAVELS" loudly. Cooking, travel, children's, a little crafting, some midcentury modern decorating, and some random stuff that always catches my eye.

1. The Cooking of China (1968) is a bit late for my tastes, but one look at the cover and it was in the pile.
2. I've never been to Alaska, which generally would preclude me buying Alaska (1969) but this book published by National Geographic has great photographs.
3. Ladies' Home Journal Book of Interior Decoration (1957) is full of 50s decorating goodness like this bedroom. For a non-matchy-matchy person like me, this is like a technicolor nightmare with a library binding.
4. Latin American Cooking (1968) is full of meat dishes that I will never cook. Lots and lots and lots of meat. But it is also full of photos like this one where "socialites in Arequipa, Peru, enjoy a patio luncheon of spicy regional dishes". I could not leave that stripey dress.
5. I honestly have no idea why compelled me to put Great Restaurants Cookbook, U.S.A. in the basket, but it does have lurid photographs of food like Ham Buffet Mold. Actually, I know exactly why I put it in the basket: Ham Buffet Mold. All of the photos of the food have fascinating props too.
6. I bought How To Make Your Windows Beautiful: An inspiring, all new guide for creating today's best window treatments (1972) as a gift for a friend. Yes, I did. Even with the cover. Then I realized that there might be people in the world, even friends of mine, who might not be completely infatuated with photographs like this. Odd world, isn't it?
7. I flipped through Easy Bazaar Crafts (1981) and was going to set it back down. It is very 80s in its crafting sensibilities, a little too 80s if you get my drift. But I ended up buying it because of this photograph and for no other reason. Just look at that baby. Just look. And tell me you could have left him/her at the thrift store. You could have? I did say it was a compulsion, right?

There you have it. Books nobody wants. I felt sorry for them (!) and brought them home. They actually make me quite happy.

Week One Wrap Up: 4 Days and the Excitement is Building

It's been four long days and NaBloPoMo is still going strong. There've been tears, there's been heartache, pain, determination, courage, and the will to survive. The going's been tough, but when the going gets tough, the tough get going and the crybabies stay home crying into their soup.

1. Our psychic abilities are still limited to foretelling how many times a particularly annoying commercial will air while we are watching tv. We have not found a way to market this skill.
2. K. thanked me for clearing off the top of the dryer, and he even patted my head. There are still no hot dogs.
3. After I wrote the tribute to my phone and texting, I updated the software and my phone freaked out and I had no phone for like 15 hours. I survived, but it was close. There have been no text messages at all today. At last check, I am still alive.
4. I went to the flea market today. I always take photos of produce when I am there. I rarely buy produce. I mostly buy books that I think no one else would want and that I feel sorry for.
5. I am on the cusp of realizing that I have a problem feeling sorry for books, and that my house is not big enough to hold all of the books in the world that I feel sorry for, which is most of the books at every flea market you can think of. More on this later.
6. Today was actually kind of dull. I am half under the weather and spent a lot of time cutting fabric and no time sewing and so I have little to show for Sunday, November 4th. All of the hype was designed to make you think that something had actually happened, when in fact the opposite is true. Like those car commercials on today during football in which car companies that do not actually produce hybrids talk about hybrids while showing photos of their non-hybrid cars. It's confusing. But then again the beer commercials are confusing me too. On that note...

ta4n

I like texting. There, I've said it. I didn't want to like it. In fact, I didn't send my first text message until sometime early this year. March? April? I thought, what's the fuss? I thought, good lord we have our phones with us 24/7 now, how could we need texting too? I thought, texting is for teenagers, and I'm too old for that. I thought, it's just one more way that people are wasting time at work and being rude. Then I sent my very first txt to my BFF. I was immediately smitten.

Texting is fun. K. laughs at me. He says I am like a teenager with my texting. He doesn't get it. I send him one or two texts during the day to let him know we are thinking about him and we miss him. He ignores them. Usually I text him a picture too.

The camera. On my iPhone. I love it too. The pictures are generally blurry and overexposed but I am undeniably devoted to them.

I'm not going anywhere with this. Just confessional. I love my iPhone, I love its crappity little camera, and I love texting.

Good night.

shirts are not perfect rectangles, not by a long shot

It has taken me 41 years to realize that you can be bad at ironing.

Ironing strikes me as pretty mindless, on the opposite end of the spectrum from brain surgery. Clearly we are no longer sponging the clothes and then swiping at them with an iron plucked from the coals. How is it possible to be bad at such a technologically advanced, clearly defined, straightforward task? In fact I have a flashy new iron which is has a truly intimidating list of features. The new iron is impressive. And hot. It spits boiling water like a hissing steam train and burns me. That is not the worst of its trangressions.

I am having a homemaker-ish kind of day. I decide to iron in order to show K. how much I love him. You know how to make your man feel special—some days it's sex, some days steak (or salmon) (or tofu kabobs) (or whatever his favorite may be), and some days it's ironing. Today I am showing my love by uncovering the top of the dryer for the first time in months. I know, I know, you are thinking to yourself that K. won't even notice that the dryer is uncovered, much less appreciate that it is a testament to our undying affection. You are right. However I don't mind informing him of the fact (communication is key, remember!). That is the beauty of us—the give and take, the transfer of knowlege, the growing together, not apart. K., I LOVE YOU AND THE TOP OF THE DRYER IS NOW VISIBLE! YOU CAN THANK ME LATER.

All that to say that I felt good about the plan to iron. I take the first shirt. I begin to iron it. And I remember my lifelong commitment to never iron again. I don't actually believe in ironing. I went to high school and college in the 80s and embraced that whole preppy scene, including the rumpled, no-need-to-iron, wrinkles are cool mantra. I have clung stubbornly to it ever since.

I should know by now that I always begin to hate whatever I am ironing. My loathing for the act of ironing is projected on to the item until I cannot stand the sight of it. I put the shirt on the board. I admire the fabric. I begin to iron. As I become more frustrated my affection turns to distaste and my distaste to hate. What a hideous garment! What a loathsome pattern/color/fabric. Look at those idiotic buttons! How did I never notice them before? They are repulsive! How could I have ever worn this object, or allowed K. out of the house wearing such?

For a perfectionist like me ironing drives home the futility of life. The shirt has wrinkles. The iron is designed to remove the wrinkles. You apply the iron. You swoosh the iron back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. You arrange the shirt on the ironing board. You turn the shirt. You arrange it again. You pull the fabric this way and that, stretching and turning and straining and yanking. Forget about the sleeves. Sleeves are clearly the instrument of the devil. And in the end there are still wrinkles. They are there if you know where to look for them, hiding in the armpits and the collars and the interfacings. The wrinkles will not go away, no matter how hard you work.

However, I am committed in my love for K. and my plan to excavate the dryer. I attempt to distract myself. I decide to start a club for the un-ironers, an I EMBRACE MY WRINKLES club. A yahoo group. A Flickr group. A Web site. A movement. But I know I won't. There isn't the time, there isn't the energy, there isn't the insanity.

I decide to embrace the futility of life and have hot dogs for dinner. Hot dogs are the perfect reflection of meaninglessness.

The dryer is unencumbered. There are no hot dogs.

the definition of free seems wobbly

A week ago Friday K. and I decided to redeem our free vouchers for 4 plane tickets to the Caribbean. Generally I am not a "free" person. I never click on the free giftcard for Walmart spam. I do not consider having a salesman who looks like a lounge singer and smells like chronic halitosis berate me into buying time at the world's best investment of a vacation community to be a "free" trip. Free seems to me to be bandied about in a most alarming manner these days. But the plane tickets, they seemed like they might actually be free.

We were squashed in the airport in Puerto Rico. The airport on cruise ship day is three sizes too small. I reflected on sardines, though I think I'd prefer to be a kippered herring. More glamorous. We squashed ourselves here and we squashed ourselves there. I tried to get a shot which conveyed the sense of claustrophobia, but sans a ladder all I got was feet. Lots and lots and lots of feet.

Not only was every single flight leaving late, they were all overbooked. Seriously overbooked. Each gate successively began making wheedling announcements. $100 voucher. $200 voucher. Free ticket voucher.

K. looked at me. Generally the children would preclude any thoughts of accepting. 4 extra hours in the airport for free tickets? I don't know what it was that day—alignment of the planets, heat hangover, the desire to hang on to vacation for a bit longer. Whatever the reason I gave K. the go-ahead and he snaked his way over to talk to the agents.

It must have been our lucky day because we were chosen for the first class seats and the free tickets. I was not prepared to wiggle around like a fish packed in oil for 4 hours first class seats notwithstanding so I cajoled and begged and expounded and reasoned and pleaded most unbecomingly with K. and we ended up with a room at the Best Western in the airport.

Not only was it ridiculously expensive, it was dismal. It looked over a series of rooftops. It was brown brown brown. The carpet had memories of vomit, the linens of other bodily functions. It had a tiny flat screen tv mounted on the longest, dullest, brownest wall I have ever seen in a hotel room. And it was all ours.

We spread out. We plumped the pillows. We plugged things in. We used the toilet in a most definitive way. Everyone but me napped. I was quite pleased with myself. And when the time came we checked out and sauntered down to the gate to find that our flight was delayed for another hour. We clutched the vouchers in our hands and thought of another trip to a sunny, happy place.

We were still thinking sunny and happy last weekend. We chose dates. We settled on an island. We found a house to rent. And we called the airlines. As usual we were planning on leaving on Thanksgiving day, historically a light day for the airlines. We did not foresee any issues. Psychics we are not.

K. cajoled and begged and expounded and reasoned and pleaded most unbecomingly and we did get our tickets. For $600. Those tickets might be emancipated, they might enjoy personal rights such as an ephemeral slip of paper might enjoy, and they might be unobstructed, independent, politically autonomous, unoccupied, exempt, immune, unimpeded, unattached, and unstinted. But they weren't free.

NaBloPoMo? Perhaps.

Shelba has thrown down the gauntlet and I have accepted the challenge. Although I am not really sure that the world actually needs a National Month dedicated to blogging, well, we have one. It's already a done deal.

There must be a lot to talk about in November right? The mind boggles. The fingers itch. The laptop waits. The creative juices..dry up at the thought of the next 30 days. Never mind. There must be 30 successive posts up there smeared between the ganglia somewhere. I shall just have to tease them out. Goo-B-Gone might help.

You shall have a proper post later today. And every day thereafter until we hit 30, or I get on the airplane and abandon the exercise like I did last year.

NaBloPoMo